


Once Upon A Rising Moon

by CallieB



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jupiter Ascending AU, Rumbelle Christmas in July
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7564141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieB/pseuds/CallieB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rumpelstiltskin steps through the White Rabbit's portal to find his son, he's not in the Land Without Magic as he expected. Instead, he finds himself in the Jupiter Refinery, a prisoner of Balem Abrasax, with all his magic stripped away, confined with another prisoner, a mysterious and beautiful young girl from his own world...</p>
<p>A Jupiter Ascending AU gift for TheStraggletag - happy Rumbelle Christmas In July from your secret Santa!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell Is Empty And All The Devils Are Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheStraggletag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/gifts).



“He wants to see you.” The lizard's voice is a deep, throaty rumble, his dark eyes glittering in his scaled head. Rumpelstiltskin barely looks up. He's too absorbed in studying his own skin; the way that his own granite complexion seems to have dulled, the mystical glitter fading after weeks kept in captivity. Perhaps it's the lack of sunlight, although he's been imprisoned before. Perhaps it's the same otherworldly element that has taken his magic away. He moves his hand, watching the darkened skin ripple without its customary shine.

“I said, he wants to see you,” the lizard growls. He seems agitated, but then again, his kind don't appear to be capable of much variety of tone. Rumpelstiltskin raises his head slowly, dragging his gaze away from his blackened fingernails.

“Yes, dearie, I heard you the first time.” Fear. It's not an emotion he's used to experiencing, at least not on such a superficial level as this. But he won't allow them to know it. After all, without his magic, what else has he left but trickery and bluff?

The lizard takes one large, threatening step into the room. Just one. He doesn't speak again; it's a game, and although Rumpelstiltskin's considerable wits far outmatch this lumbering animal's, he knows it's not the lizard he's really playing. He can barely prevent a light shudder from rippling through him. It's been many, many years since he's met anyone more powerful than himself, and even if he had his magic intact he doubts he'd be any match for the lizard's master.

“Well, I suppose I can spare the time,” he says theatrically, rising from the worn wooden chair he's been sitting in. His gaze flickers to the ceiling. It's inky black glass, gleaming in the dim light; he can't see through it. But that doesn't mean no one's watching.

“Follow me,” the lizard grunts, somewhat unnecessarily, as he turns and tramps out of the little room. Rumpelstiltskin obeys, running one long fingernail interestedly across the edge of the doorway as he passes through. There's no door to his room; the archway through which the lizard has brought him usually hums with a strange blue pulsing light that crackles ominously if he tries to get too close. He hasn't been foolish enough to try and touch it yet, although sometimes in his darker moments he thinks that it would be worth the risk if it would kill him. Once he and the lizard are safely through the doorway, the light snaps back on. He wonders how it works. It must be magic, and yet this world does not appear to have magic, or at least not in the form that he's used to. In his old world, with his old powers, he could certainly have restrained a prisoner with magic that would hurt them if they tried to pass by, but the lightening crackle and buzz of his door is totally alien to him.

As it should be, he supposes. He is, after all, on a different planet.

There are other doors made with the same unnatural, dangerous light; behind them, shadowy figures pace their own cells, or lie back on the cold steel tables that seem to pass for beds, or simply sit, as he had done, in the battered chairs, minds desperately working to find a way out. Rumpelstiltskin doesn't hold out much hope for their chances; if _he_ can't find an escape, he doubts anyone else will be able to.

The lizard doesn't give him enough time to study the other prisoners, although he's already ascertained on previous excursions that few of them appear to be human. No surprises there; he's not sure he's seen a pure human since he arrived here. He does his best to examine them anyway, just in case something leaps out at him, although he's not particularly hopeful. They're being held in small, square cells positioned on either side of a long, narrow corridor. The only light comes from the magical doors, which gives it a flickering, jumping quality and leaves the corners of the rooms shady and dim. The doors also seem to be the only security, apart from the lizards; there are no chains or locks, no keys or passes that could be stolen from a guard. Rumpelstiltskin isn't sure how long the corridor goes on for; it's too far for even his vision to see the end of.

He hasn't spoken to any of the other prisoners in all the weeks he's been here. He thinks there's some sort of magic in the walls to prevent sound from spreading, because he's not heard a murmur from any of them. Not the slightest cry, not a whisper. He also, now he thinks about it – as though he's been thinking of anything else – hasn't been able to hear the approach of the lizards until they're actually at his doorway.

He doesn't know how they deactivate his door to get in. They don't carry anything, and there's no switch on any of the external walls. His best guess is that the doors _are_ magic, and they're saying some sort of spell to temporarily disarm it, which perhaps he can't hear because of the spells in the walls.

All in all, he's amassed frustratingly little information about his imprisonment in the past few weeks; it's two parts guesswork, and the rest wild supposition. The lizards have been his only company, and even they say very little to him. And his captor... Again, he has to suppress a shiver of fear at the thought of where he's going. At the power he's about to face. For the thousandth time, he reaches hopelessly for his magic. And for the thousandth time, a dry bed waits for his touch, where once there had been a lake of power.

The stairs that the lizard leads him up are made of the same dark, inky material as the ceiling. It shines the way glass would, but he's not entirely certain that that's what it is. More likely that it's another magical substance with which he's unfamiliar. Certainly glass can't usually switch between being opaque and clear, so that he'll unexpectedly be able to see feet standing above him, eyes looking down at him.

They reach the top of the stairs, and the lizard escorts him through another doorway that flashes back to crackling blue as soon as they've passed. They must leave that one disarmed every time they come down to get him, because he's sure he'd be able to see the unnatural glow from the stairs; he suspects it's so that he can't watch them complete whatever process is necessary to open the door, but he files it away in his mind as a potential weakness nonetheless.

It's the windows, as always, that take his breath away. They're enormous, floor-to-ceiling and at least thirty feet high, the dusty reddish light glinting off the glittering floor and illuminating what little remains of Rumpelstiltskin's own sparkle. The lizard, clearly used to the view, growls in what can only be supposed to be an irritated fashion as Rumpelstiltskin stops in his tracks to take in the light, the scenery, the crests and turrets of the refinery outside, unlike anything that even he has ever seen.

“It impresses you.” _That voice_. Almost a whisper, the words so precise, every syllable enunciated with careful delicacy. It's the voice of a ghost, the voice of a dream. An ancient voice.

He deliberately doesn't turn around. “Oh, yes, dearie,” he says softly. He laughs quietly, the sound high and unnatural, reverberating around the enormous hall. “Who wouldn't be impressed?”

“I believe it would surprise you,” the voice answers, still even, still picking over each word, “to discover how few there are who truly _do_ appreciate what I have created here.”

Now Rumpelstiltskin does turn, sauntering away from the enormous window and the lizard who stands motionless beside it and towards the owner of the voice, pretending his heart isn't skipping with fear. “Not at all, dearie,” he says lightly. “You forget; I'm used to power.”

Balem Abrasax moves slightly, into a shaft of dusky light so that his pale, freckled face comes into view. Rumpelstiltskin allows his eyes to travel upwards, from the bare feet beneath his gleaming metallic trousers up to his muscular bare chest, adorned only with the flowing sleeveless black robes that fall to the floor, the fabric rippling and sparkling unnaturally in the light. He wears his usual ornate brass collar, along with several gold bracelets and rings on his wrists and thin, long-nailed fingers. His hands are clasped together in front of his belt, his hooded dark eyes watching as he waits for Rumpelstiltskin to meet them again.

To Rumpelstiltskin's sensitive nose, the man – if he can even really be called as such – _reeks_ of power. Power, and magic, albeit a magic so foreign to him that he can hardly begin to quantify it. All of Rumpelstiltskin's knowledge, everything he has taken centuries to learn, the ages he has seen rise and fall, pale to nothing in comparison with the eons he knows that Balem has lived. Thousands and thousands of years, all witnessed by this deathly pale monster, watching silently with those heavy-lidded eyes...

His thick, oddly rubbery lips are curving into his version of a smile. “You are used to being the most powerful man in the room,” he observes.

“I'm not a man,” Rumpelstiltskin rejoins immediately. “But otherwise, yes.” He grins, although the movement feels forced even to him. “You're a dent to my ego, dearie!”

Balem inclines his head. “You could not match me,” he says simply.

“I wouldn't try.” There's no lie there; even with all his powers intact, Rumpelstiltskin would only run from this impassive cold face. _Coward_ , he thinks, his mind throwing up an image of his son’s young, angry face. Even after all this time.

There’s a brief silence as Balem considers his answer; he steps forward, further into the light, his naked soles silent on the smooth floor. “And yet you will not tell me where you come from,” he observes quietly, coming to a gentle halt beside Rumpelstiltskin. His gaze is piercing.

This time, Rumpelstiltskin disguises his shudder as a shrug, turning back to look out of the windows. “I’ve told you where I’m from,” he says, as lightly as he can manage given the penetrating glare currently fixed on the side of his head.

There’s a note of steely amusement in Balem’s delicate tones when he replies. “Misthaven.”

“Indeed,” Rumpelstiltskin agrees.

Balem tilts his head slightly to one side. “You conceal more than you tell, Rumpelstiltskin,” he says. His tone is calm, but Rumpelstiltskin can hear the thrum of his heart picking up in pace. “Misthaven… No such place exists, in any of our records.”

Rumpelstiltskin makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. Outside, swirls of what appears to be deep crimson sand blow past, although he knows for a fact that there is no real wind to speak of. It’s all an illusion here.

“Yet you have not lied,” Balem says musingly, turning a little to look in the same direction as Rumpelstiltskin. His dark eyes flicker over to meet Rumpelstiltskin’s. “Places may have common names, names that are not a matter of record, of course. Perhaps you are trying to fool me with a name like that?”

Rumpelstiltskin keeps himself as still as possible. He has no power, no magic, is completely defenseless against the might of the man beside him. He has no doubt that the information Balem wants could be tortured out of him with a click of those gold-ringed fingers. But it’s his home that’s under threat, his son’s home… He won’t give it up without a fight. Somewhere, deep down, he thinks that perhaps Baelfire would be proud of him.

Balem doesn’t appear to be surprised by the lack of response; then again, Rumpelstiltskin is doubtful that he’s capable of showing any emotion, even if he’s able to feel it. He hums softly under his breath, the sound sending chills down Rumpelstiltskin’s spine. Give him a good old-fashioned confrontation with the Queens of Darkness any day.

“Why did you come here, Rumpelstiltskin?” he asks.

Rumpelstiltskin answers in the same way he has every time Balem has asked him this question. “I made a mistake.” He hesitates. “Several mistakes.”

That’s one, downplayed, way of putting it. He’ll never tell Balem all the mistakes he’s made; his secrets are like a shroud, protecting him from his fear. Some of the choices he’s made… Can he really call them mistakes? Choosing to take the dagger, to kill Zoso, saved his son’s life. He can’t wish that away. And choosing to heed the seer’s warning, back when he was serving in the Ogre Wars himself… There’s no escaping prophecy. Her words would have come true in another way if he hadn’t done what he did, perhaps by invoking his death. He can’t want to change that, either, even if it lost him the love of his wife, the respect of all his peers. He had brought his son up, seen him grow and thrive, which was all he’d ever wanted then.

It’s all so many hundreds of years ago now. Milah is dead, the kings and peasants alike who had mocked him long buried. His son… his son is alive, must be alive. He’s been promised another meeting with Baelfire, and he has to believe that somehow his boy has found a way to cheat the years. Because losing him… that was the greatest mistake he ever made. His hand opens and closes reflexively, the ghost of Bae’s little palm inside it shimmering as he recalls the swirling of the portal, his boy swallowed up in the earth, calling out to him, disappearing, lost forever…

Everything he’s done since then, every choice he’s made, has been about rectifying that error. Bringing his son back to him. That was why he went to Wonderland, why he sought out the White Rabbit with the spell he’d found in Agrabah. It was supposed to find lost things.

The Rabbit had helped him, with some heavy persuasion. He’d drawn the portal, the new spell mixed in with his peculiar magic, and Rumpelstiltskin had climbed through, expecting to find himself in the Land Without Magic. The place where he had sent his son. And instead he’d found himself standing in Balem Abrasax’s refinery, open-mouthed and shivering at the sudden loss of his magic, the sounds and smells and jarring sensations of being in another world.

When they’d captured him, he’d hardly been able to resist. Here, he was just an old man with glittering skin. Here, he was nothing.

Balem is watching him, his hooded eyes glittering in the half-light of the room. He says, his voice a snake-like whisper: “I can help you, Rumpelstiltskin… I can help you find what you are looking for…”

The lizard shuffles its enormous feet, the leathery wings at its back creasing and refolding. Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes dart over it, and then settle back on some indiscriminate part of the landscape outside the window, all iron and steel and surrounded by billowing, airless red smoke. “And what is it you suppose I’m looking for?” He keeps his voice light, but he’s sure even the lizard can hear the edge to it.

Balem prowls around him, eyes flickering up and down, considering. His mere gaze sends prickles across Rumpelstiltskin’s body, but he keeps still, as though he doesn’t have a vengeful god studying him.

“My mother, I believe, would have liked you.” Not a response Rumpelstiltskin would have anticipated, but he keeps the surprise off his face; if Balem can do it, so can he. “She had a penchant for… curiosities.”

“Is that what I am to you?”

“You are unexpected,” Balem answers, which sounds as though he’s saying yes. “I have never felt power like yours.”

Rumpelstiltskin considers this. He doesn’t really _have_ any power here in this world, and yet Balem is old enough and clever enough to be able to taste the power he had once had, in his own land. Perhaps it is as alien to him as the magic here is to Rumpelstiltskin? To a creature like Balem – a creature, he’s forced to admit, much like _himself_ – that must be a source of endless fascination – and frustration.

He doesn’t articulate any of this, settling instead for saying simply: “Your magic is new to me too.”

To his surprise, this innocuous statement draws a sharp breath from Balem; the man turns abruptly, bringing his face close to Rumpelstiltskin’s even as he towers above him. “Magic?” he says. “Is that what you call me?”

Rumpelstiltskin blinks slowly at him. What else could this power be but magic? “Magic, yes,” he says unwillingly. “But not of a variety I’ve encountered before.” He’s not sure if he should really be telling Balem any of this, but it’s not as if it’s not something he could easily work out himself. Besides, it keeps his dangerous mind occupied, and away from the question of Rumpelstiltskin’s home world.

“Magic,” Balem repeats, rolling the word around on his tongue. “After all, to a primitive mind, all technology appears magical.”

Rumpelstiltskin is irrationally stung by this comment. “There’s nothing primitive about my magic, dearie, when it’s working.”

“Perhaps it is technology of a different kind,” Balem says solemnly. “Perhaps we are speaking of something that is two sides of the same coin. The physics of your world must be very different to those of mine.”

Struck by that idea, Rumpelstiltskin frowns. “This is supposed to be the Land Without Magic,” he mutters, more to himself than to Balem. Has he found himself in the right place, after all? This land is nothing like anything his research had uncovered, but then those investigations had produced scant results at best. He’d assumed, because of the way everything looked, the way his senses tingled just to be there, that he was somewhere full of magic, charged with it – but Balem’s behaviour suggests that it’s not a word commonly applied here. Technology, physics… Perhaps the strange blue lights that block his way down in his cell are merely part of this world’s science, in the same way that a blacksmith can craft a sword with molten metal, an extraordinarily difficult feat, yet without requiring any magic at all.

All he says, however, is: “Perhaps.”

“I wish to know more of this _magic_ ,” Balem says after a moment’s pause. “You must have come from a different dimension. How did you come to be here?”

He doesn’t want to tell him, but it seems the best way to gain Balem’s trust – and he needs to gain his trust, if he’s ever to have a chance of escaping this place and finding his son. “There is an… individual in my world, capable of creating portals between worlds,” he says carefully. “I made use of their services.”

Balem’s head tips to one side. “We have found no portal,” he says.

“One use only, I’m afraid, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin says brightly, a trace of his old giggle in his voice. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to use it.

“Ah,” Balem says, inclining his head serenely as though he had expected Rumpelstiltskin’s answer. His hooded eyes narrow just slightly. “We have found no other in the refinery,” he says. “This… individual you speak of did not come through the portal with you?”

“No,” Rumpelstiltskin says shortly. Whenever he thinks about that – about never returning to the Enchanted Forest, never again being able to access his magic – something hard and painful tightens in his chest. But to find Baelfire, he’d leave it all behind in a moment.

Balem is fully facing him now, eyes locked onto Rumpelstiltskin’s. “You came to a world where your power is worthless, without a way back to your own dimension,” he says softly.

Rumpelstiltskin’s whole body is stiller than stone. “Yes.”

“You must have had good reason,” Balem observes. Rumpelstiltskin only nods, still refusing to look at the other man. Balem moves a little further away, looking back out of the window where the storms of sand and smoke still swirl scarlet around the gleaming metal turrets of the refinery.

“Perhaps you were escaping something,” he says. “Or perhaps…” His voice, already so soft that Rumpelstiltskin has to strain to hear it, drops even lower. “Perhaps you are looking for something that you cannot find in your own world.” He pauses. “Or someone.”

Rumpelstiltskin looks at him then; the cloth of his robes swirls around his feet, and the collar glints, the intricately carved patterns bouncing light back from the window. He is dangerous, more dangerous than Rumpelstiltskin, who has ended wars, killed countless enemies, conjured dark magic beyond reckoning, could ever be. He realises, with a sick, swooping feeling in his stomach, that there is a reason Balem summoned him today. They’ve never spoken so much as they have today before.

Balem’s oddly-shaped lips twist into a mangled smile, his smooth speckled cheeks twitching a little. “I have found what you seek,” he whispers. “Shall I show you?”

His son. Baelfire. Balem has found Baelfire. He’d thought, because of the magic, that the spell hadn’t worked, that it had interfered with the Rabbit’s portal and brought him to the wrong place. Now he knows that it isn’t magic, perhaps it worked exactly as it was supposed to. Perhaps it has truly brought him to where Baelfire is. And now Balem has found him first.

“If you like, dearie,” he says, forcing the tremors out of his voice. He can’t help it from dropping a few octaves, though. “Show me anything you like.”

Balem’s smile is too eager, wolfish, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. There’s the heavy, hot strain of cruelty in his expression, his mouth smiling but his eyes glittering with malevolence. Without taking his eyes off Rumpelstiltskin, he extends a long, pale arm, gesturing towards the far end of the room. “Mr. Night!”

He hasn’t raised his voice at all, but a small, black-cloaked figure scurries forward immediately, as though waiting for this summons – which, Rumpelstiltskin reasons, he almost certainly has been. He’s never seen a man look so odd; his brow is unnaturally prominent, his ears pointed and his hair a thick, dusty white. There are heavy mottled patches of red beneath his eyes and on his nose, and his teeth jut out of his white-lipped mouth.

“Mr. Night, bring out the prize.” Balem’s voice hisses over the word _prize_ , his sick excitement almost palpable. Rumpelstiltskin has a little awareness of what those in the Enchanted Forest who fear him feel when he smiles at them; his heart is thrumming in his chest, his fists balled up by his sides.

Mr. Night scuttles away again, but not for long. When he returns, he’s guiding four other small, pale creatures like himself, all carrying a long, glass tube that vaguely reminds him of the coffin he knows Regina has waiting at home for her stepdaughter. It’s a far more clinical affair, however, glowing blue underneath, and with none of the intricate iron castings that Regina’s contraption sports. There’s a figure lying inside, but he can’t see it clearly, and he knows he can’t appear too eager to look.

“What’s this, dearie?” he asks Balem, as though he doesn’t care either way. Balem’s lips pull back from his teeth in a manner that shows Rumpelstiltskin quite clearly how effective _that_ deception has been.

“You have an unfamiliar scent, you know,” he says, his delicate whisper heightened a little in excitement. “All planets do, of course, but you… I could tell immediately you were from another dimension.”

Rumpelstiltskin knows what he means; it’s not quite a smell, but that’s the best way to describe it. It’s like an aura, a gauze draped over this strange world that tells him he’s not where he belongs. A sensation, like fingers trickling down his spine, a prickling underneath his skin. Balem probably feels it even more strongly than he does.

He’s continuing, sounding almost enthusiastic, or at least what might pass for enthusiastic given his penchant for monotones. “We have so many people here,” he says. He glances at Rumpelstiltskin. “Perhaps, another day, I’ll explain why. All I had to do was to follow that scent to find the one you seek. I knew they must be here. No one escapes me.” His chest puffs out just a little at this last pronouncement.

“Very clever, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin says in his driest tone. His heart is beating so loudly he’s sure Balem must be able to hear it; he can hardly dare to look towards the glass tube. To see his son again, after all these years! But under such dire circumstances. Should he affect nonchalance, pretend that Baelfire means nothing to him? To admit their relationship is to hand Balem a noose to tie around his neck, but then Balem could always threaten Baelfire’s life, call his bluff.

Balem is watching him closely. “Shall we look?” he breathes.

Rumpelstiltskin can’t wait any longer, can’t exchange any more barbed comments with this creature. He manages to pace himself as he walks over, but his hands are trembling, clenched at his sides. His son. Will he still be a child? There’s no telling what magic has kept him alive all this time. If he has grown into adulthood, what will he look like? Will Balem be able to see Rumpelstiltskin’s features in his face, guess at the truth, or will he look more like Milah, as he always did as a child?

At last, he reaches the glass, places a shaking silvery palm on the outside of the container, and looks in.

At the face of a woman he has never seen before in all his life.


	2. And Though She Be But Little, She Is Fierce

He has seconds to react; Balem’s eyes are on him, and he’s smiling as though he’s won a prize. He could, quite truthfully, deny all knowledge of this woman who has apparently come from his own world. He could allow to Balem to kill her, which he would probably do, as some sort of test, and walk away quite unscathed.

But would that help him to accomplish his goals? Balem must have seen the way he’d approached the tube. If he tells the truth, he’ll only give the man the motivation to look twice as hard for Baelfire, knowing that there is _someone_ out there who could cause Rumpelstiltskin’s hands to tremble. He looks down at the woman. Her eyes are closed, oblivious to the drama she has stirred around her.

He looks up again, at Balem. Forcing a slight tremor into his voice – just the barest hint, Balem will catch on immediately if he overdoes it – he says: “How long have you had her?”

He’s judged it right; Balem’s lips stretch in a nasty smile. “Long enough,” he says, his voice like the touch of a malevolent ghost. “Who is she, Rumpelstiltskin? Your daughter? Or…” He trails off, looking into the glass at the woman.

Rumpelstiltskin can barely keep from scoffing. Or? As though any woman would want to be with him! He suspects that it’s that knowledge which has led Balem to make the comment, barbed as it is. His fingernails scrape against the curved glass, and he looks down again.

She’s beautiful, there’s no denying that. Long, fluttering dark eyelashes brush the swell of her pale cheeks, flushed with shadows and reddish light from the window that reflects off the glass and gives her skin a waxy appearance. Her lips are a deep red, slightly parted, and her hair is a mass of unruly dark curls tumbling across her slim shoulders. She wears a green embroidered gown typical of the Enchanted Forest’s formal style, with a flat, moss-green bodice sewn all over with little emeralds; the skirts are full and satiny, with fluffy petticoats bolstering them underneath, and her feet peeping out in little green slippers. Her hands, coarser than he might have expected given her attire, are folded neatly at her stomach.

“Mr. Night,” Balem says quietly behind him. “Take the lady to her rooms.”

Mr. Night nods, gesturing hastily towards his four counterparts, who quickly pick up the glass coffin and begin bearing the woman away, towards the enormous double doors at the other end of the hall. Rumpelstiltskin turns swiftly back to Balem, determined to play his part. Even if he never finds Baelfire, he’ll rest a little easier knowing that Balem never found him either. That he protected his son.

“Where is he taking her?” It’s easier to bring out the tremulous note in his voice just by thinking about Baelfire.

“Why, your rooms, of course,” Balem replies smoothly. Rumpelstiltskin notices somewhat wryly that the mystical, delicate tone is somewhat lessened in the face of Balem’s glee. Balem’s lips curve in that sick representation of a smile once more. “I do like to reunite lovers.”

“You’ll take me to her?” Rumpelstiltskin presses. “Have you hurt her?”

“She is unharmed,” Balem says softly, the precise note coming back to his voice. “Greeghan will take you to her rooms.” He gestures towards the lizard; Rumpelstiltskin is mildly surprised to learn that the creature has a name.

When he turns back, Balem is gone. There’s no cloud of smoke, no click of the fingers, the way there is when Rumpelstiltskin disappears in one place and then reappears in another; he’s simply gone, vanished as though he were never there. Rumpelstiltskin shudders, his eyes fluttering briefly closed. Balem gives him the creeps, and there’s not many people he could say that about.

Opening his eyes again, he’s unsurprised to find the lizard – Greeghan – looming over him, scaled arms folded in front of his enormous, grey-green chest. Rumpelstiltskin is used to people – or beasts – being taller than he is; it’s never fazed him to have to look up at anyone he wants to address. He’s smaller than everyone, too, his chest slimmer, his arms and legs thinner. He knows that this, coupled with the granite-like skin, the blown, silvery cats-eyes, the rotted teeth that the curse bestowed upon him, renders him the single most unattractive creature in the Enchanted Forest; at least Regina, or Balem for that matter, make evil look appealing. He’ll never be wanted, never be desired. But he’s made his peace with that, worked it to his own advantage, become the most frightening he can be, and having a lizard stand over him – even an enormous, winged lizard, with a head the size of a boulder – is far from being enough to upset his composure.

“I suppose you’re to take me to my _twue love_ now, dearie,” he twitters, just to see Greeghan gnash his enormous canines.

“This way,” the lizard grunts. He stalks away, towards the double doors, and Rumpelstiltskin, smiling just because _Balem doesn’t have Baelfire_ , follows.

The corridor beyond the doors is decorated in much the same way as the hall; the floors are the same inky black, the only light coming from heavy brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. There aren’t any windows here, however; the walls are mostly bare, although in some place ornately worked pieces of metal hang in what he can only assume is a significant fashion of some kind. Every now and then, he and the lizard pass wide archways, rimmed in gold, leading off into more endless halls and corridors, and once they actually turn down into one.

After what feels like an interminable period of time – Rumpelstiltskin suspects that he’s been taken by a roundabout route, to allow the rat men time to get the woman to their destination first – Greeghan stops in front of a pair of rounded gold and brass doors, curling patterns embossed across their surface. The lizard gestures towards them; if Rumpelstiltskin could have put an expression to his mass of teeth and glittering eyes, he might have said the beast was amused.

“Go on in,” Greeghan says gruffly.

Cautiously, Rumpelstiltskin puts his palm against the door, wondering for a moment if there will be some magic or technology that stings him to the touch. There’s nothing, and emboldened, he pushes against the metal, hearing it groan gently as the door swings inward.

Greeghan doesn’t follow him when Rumpelstiltskin slips through the doorway, but he does reach out a large, clawed hand to pull the door back into place, and Rumpelstiltskin hears the click of a lock falling into place. He doesn’t spare a thought for it; he wasn’t foolish enough to think they wouldn’t lock him in.

The room he’s in is, to say the least, far nicer than his cell underground. His first thought is that it’s _light_ , in a way that none of the rooms he’s seen so far have been; they’ve all been touched by the murky glow of candlelight, overrun by the red tinge that the sky outside seems to bring to everything. That’s still here, of course, let in through a large, floor-to-ceiling window to his left, but lanterns and chandeliers placed in strategic positions around him give the large room a warm, buttery glow.

The floor is made out of polished oak, rather than the dark glass he’s become so accustomed to, and he smiles to feel it underneath his feet. He knows Balem must be making some kind of point, by putting him in a room like this, but just for the moment he can’t quite bring himself to care. He’s become just a little soft, after all his years in the dark castle, and it’s nice to return to luxury once more, even if only temporarily.

Two steps lead up to an enormous bed, almost wider than it is long, adorned with shining golden covers. On the bed, the rat men have placed the woman. No longer in the tube, her hair splashes out across one of the pillows, her chest rising and falling gently. Her hands are no longer on her stomach; one is thrown up by her face, the other disappearing into her skirts by her side. For a minute, Rumpelstiltskin simply watches her breathing. He has no idea who she is, or when she’ll wake up, but there’s an unexpected relief simply at not being alone in the room.

To his right, there’s an enormous bathtub, large enough to fit three or four grown men. Rumpelstiltskin assesses the girl, his head tilted to one side. There’s a wooden screen between the bath and the bed, and besides, she’s not likely to wake up intent on disturbing his modesty. It’s been a long time since he’s washed, and despite his dusty appearance, Rumpelstiltskin is unnaturally fastidious about hygiene.

The girl – and when did he start thinking of her as a girl? She looks so young, so peaceful, laid out sleeping on the bed – doesn’t so much as twitch when the water starts gushing out of the brass taps, steam billowing up to envelop Rumpelstiltskin’s face. He finds a shelf of soaps, along with other things he has no experience with; a bag of gritty salts that smell like roses and lavender and taste _disgusting_ , several sweet-scented bottles of viscous liquid, and various brushes and cloths of differing sizes. He puts some of the salts into the bathwater, inferring from their smell and the tiny dried rosehips mixed in with them that they’re the equivalent to the scented bath oils he’s used to at home.

He takes his time, rubbing a soft flannel across his body, easing a bar of lavender-scented soap over his skin. He feels sore, worn-out, and very, very alone, despite the slumbering girl not four feet away. He uses some of the liquid in one of the bottles to wash his hair, and scrubs at his back with a long wooden brush. When he feels clean, he lies back in the bath, examining his dulled skin again.

He has no idea how much time has passed when he looks down into the cooling water and realises that he has one hand grasped around his cock.

He’s not even sure how it happened; he’d been thinking, as deeply as anyone could, about the situation he’d fallen into, how best to turn in to his own advantage, and somehow that had resulted in his touching himself. He supposes it’s a reassurance, a ward against loneliness. It’s been a long, long time since he’s indulged himself in this manner. When he tries to think of how long it’s been since he was able to indulge with a loving partner… It’s been centuries since he was with Milah, and she was never particularly loving to begin with.

His eyes flicker over to the girl on the bed. She’s still sleeping soundly; she wouldn’t even know if she were awake, not hidden behind the screen and under the water. He gives his cock a long, soap-slick pull, and it twitches to life in his hand. Closing his eyes – he never likes to look at himself when he does this, never likes to see the grey _thing_ that was once flesh and blood, surrounded by little drifting patches of scales on his inner thighs and abdomen – he grips himself firmly, tugging in the pattern of quick-quick-quick- _slow_ that he likes until he’s gasping, spilling onto his hand and into the salty water.

Unbidden, an image of the girl’s face swims into his mind, peaceful in sleep. Guiltily, he pushes the picture aside; he can only imagine her disgust if she were ever to discover that he had pleasured himself to the thought of her.

He gets out quickly after that, letting the water drain away as he wraps himself in a large golden towel, warm to the touch from a heated rail on the wall, and splashes his hands up the sides of the tub to make sure it’s really clean. He shudders to think of that lovely girl waking up, taking a bath and discovering evidence of his self-indulgence.

Now that he’s done the deed, he feels somehow low, a little dirty and ashamed, especially at having done it in the same room as the girl. She’s so extraordinarily beautiful that it’s easy to see why he might have become a little carried away, but he’s far too old to be so weak. He dries himself swiftly behind the screen, and, having discovered new clothes in a large wooden dresser standing against the far wall, dresses himself in a fresh white shirt and brown leather trousers. They fit perfectly, but then he would have expected no less from Balem. There are clothes for the girl in the dresser too, but he doesn’t allow himself to think about that just yet.

He doesn’t bother putting his knee-high black boots on again, preferring to walk barefoot over to the soft golden recliner laid out right in front of the window. He’s exhausted after all the emotional upheaval, but he’d never be so bold as to share the bed with the girl, even if she didn’t know about it. He can only imagine how traumatic it would be for her should she wake up and be unexpectedly confronted with him.

Besides, he doesn’t need the distraction of her warm, decidedly too attractive body beside him; he needs to think. Balem believes that he holds the life of someone Rumpelstiltskin cares for in his hands; only pure good fortune has delivered him this pale sleeping girl instead. It’s an unexpected advantage, and one that he’s eager to press. But how? And what will Balem want in exchange for protecting the girl?

It’s almost certainly information about the Enchanted Forest; Rumpelstiltskin could probably give him this without fear of repercussion, because without magic in this land, Balem won’t be able to cross the realms. However, there’s always the chance that this _technology_ , which smells and tastes so like and yet so unlike magic, will forge him a way through. Rumpelstiltskin can’t chance that; to allow Balem access to magic would be catastrophic, for all the worlds, all the dimensions. He shudders to think of the man wielding that kind of power. There would be no return from it.

So he must give as little information as possible, while maintaining the illusion that he cares for the girl he has been roomed with, and all the time searching for a means of escape. And in the meantime, he has to think of Baelfire. If the spell worked, after all, then his son must be somewhere in this place. Balem may not have found him yet, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t, in time. Rumpelstiltskin has to find him first, has to make sure he’s safe.

The slightest moan behind him has Rumpelstiltskin back on his feet in an instant, whirling around to face the bed. The girl’s fingers are twitching beside her cheek, a faint humming breath escaping her lips as her head moves slightly. Rumpelstiltskin waits as she moves, waking up slowly. He’s not sure if he ought to hide, or if that will prove more frightening to her in the long run after all. In the end, he just stands, rooted to the spot as her eyes begin to flutter open.

For a moment, the girl just lies still, only her eyes moving, darting around the room, taking it in. Then, they land on Rumpelstiltskin, and stay there. She raises her head a little from the pillow, leaning somewhat on one elbow with an effort.

“Hello,” she says uncertainly.

Rumpelstiltskin, being Rumpelstiltskin, makes a deep, slightly mocking bow.

The girl pushes herself up further, swinging her legs around so that her feet rest on the floor. One hand slides through her dark hair, her eyes closing as she rubs the side of her temple. She stretches, her arms soaring through the air, and Rumpelstiltskin feels himself flushing underneath the grey of his skin. She’s _beautiful_.

When she’s finished with her stretches, she meets his eyes again. “Where am I?” she asks him, her voice uncertain.

“The Jupiter refineries,” Rumpelstiltskin answers. His voice sounds shrill, jarring, compared with her lilting, accented tones.

“The Jupiter…” She frowns at him, rubbing her eyes. “Is that in… Agrabah?”

Despite himself, Rumpelstiltskin feels a little wash of relief, just at knowing that she does, indeed, hail from the same land as himself. It’s been lonelier than he cares to admit, here by himself in a strange realm with no one who understands anything about where he comes from. He grins at the girl, mindful of the shock his greenish teeth must be for her; all credit goes to her when she barely flinches at the sight.

“No, dearie,” he says in answer to her question. “We are not in our own land anymore.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, her brow wrinkling. She stands up; she’s smaller than him, much to his pleasure. “Who are you?”

“Rumpelstiltskin, at your service,” he replies promptly, ending his introduction with a little giggle. She looks curiously at him, the corners of her pretty rosebud mouth twitching in a bewildered smile.

“Belle,” she says. She dips a little bobbing curtsey, the widening smile on her face showing her amusement. “Lady Belle of Avonlea.”

Not just his world, but the Enchanted Forest too! He knows Avonlea; he’s never actually met Sir Maurice, who presides over it, but he knows enough to know that this must be his daughter. “I’ve heard of your father, Lady Belle,” he tells her grandly.

She smiles delightedly. “You have?”

He nods, although neglects to tell her that what he has heard hasn’t particularly impressed him. Sir Maurice, by all accounts, is a kind man, and a good landlord to his tenants, but weak, and ill-equipped to protect his realm from outside threats. This makes him a good business prospect for Rumpelstiltskin, but equally, like most who he considers good business prospects, makes him an object of derision to the imp.

Belle is frowning at him in a speculative way. “I think I’ve heard of you too,” she says slowly. “The… the Dark One?” She phrases it as a question, although really, given his unusual appearance, there can be little doubt of his identity. He wonders drily how many monsters with skin of stone she encounters.

“At your service,” he says again, although there’s a note of caution in his voice. Despondently, he wonders what it might have been like if she hadn’t recognised him – if, for once, he’d been able to pretend he was a normal man…

He shakes off the thought at once. He’s _not_ a normal man; even without his magic, his very appearance has shown the girl that immediately. No one will ever see him as normal again, and he shouldn’t wish for it. He only does wish for it because he’s so powerless here; as soon as he recovers his magic, he’ll remember what he loves about being so different than anyone else.

The Lady Belle seems to watching the progression of his thoughts, the pensive frown still creasing her forehead. “How did you come to be here?” she asks.

Rumpelstiltskin is brought abruptly back to reality. “A portal, created by a White Rabbit,” he says briskly. He doesn’t expect that to mean anything to her – it amuses him to speak the truth in such a way as runs circles around those without his knowledge – so when she nods in understanding, her brow clearing, he frowns at her.

“I’ve heard of the White Rabbit,” she says; is that an almost wistful note in her voice? “I’d love to visit Wonderland. I’ve always wanted to travel, to explore.”

He hides a smile. “You’re further now from home than you’ve ever been,” he points out.

“I suppose that’s true,” Belle agrees. “I’d love to see it properly, though.”

He’s not sure why he does it; perhaps it’s simply the fact that she’s young and beautiful and smiling at him, and some last crusting vestiges of the man he once was wants to make her happy. He extends a crooked elbow to her, his loose cotton sleeve hanging from his arm. Laughing, the sound bright and merry, Belle slips her hand onto his arm.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks.

“Only to the window, my lady,” he says, his voice a mockery of gallantry. He does take her to the window, wide and inviting in front of the chaise longue he had been about to stretch himself out on when she awoke. She steps prettily beside him, looking up at him through her long eyelashes.

When they reach the window, he gestures outwards expansively with his free hand. “The world awaits you,” he says.

She releases his arm almost immediately, running over to the window and pressing her palms against the glass, her mouth ajar. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t follow; there’s not really a great deal to see, just the same swirls of red mist, the dips and turrets of the refinery, with its spindly metal structures and thick, distorted glass. He’s already seen it from the far greater windows in Balem’s hall, but Belle obviously hasn’t. She’s staring out, eyes flickering rapidly from side to side as she takes it all in.

“It’s beautiful,” she breaths, her words misting up the glass. “I guess I’m not in Avonlea anymore.”

Rumpelstiltskin looks at her curiously. “How did you come to be here, Lady Belle?”

“Just Belle,” she says distractedly, still gazing out of the window. “My father and I were looking through his collection of magical items, to see if we could find anything to help fight off the ogres. There was a bean…”

“You picked up an object of magic?” he asks incredulously. She had seemed an intelligent girl; surely everyone knows not to go handling magic without a proper guide, and certainly Maurice is no magical expert.

“It was an accident,” Belle says, pushing back off the glass and turning to face him. Her voice is just slightly chillier than it had been before. “I didn’t realise it was magical. I thought it was just an ordinary bean. I went to throw it away, and a portal opened up.”

“How long have you been here?”

She shrugs. “I have no idea. The lizards caught me almost as soon as I arrived, and I’ve been asleep ever since.” A slight tremor enters her voice. “I’m so worried about my father. He’ll be mad with fear, and he’s got the ogres to contend with.”

Rumpelstiltskin gives an awkward kind of shrug; dealing with emotions is not something he does. Truthfully, it’s more than likely that Maurice is already dead. As a leader, he leaves much to be desired, and the ogres attacking his realm are every bit as deadly as they were two hundred years ago when he himself fought in the wars. Without real magical assistance, Avonlea will be decimated, and the land overrun. He senses, however, that this particular strain of honesty will not be welcomed, and so for once he holds his tongue.

“Why have they put us in here together?” Belle asks, when it becomes clear that he isn’t going to respond to her fears.

This, at least, he can answer; he needs to tell her anyway, to put her on her guard for when Balem returns. He only hopes she can play the part, although he supposes that her inevitable disgust would not be surprising even if she were someone he cared for. “We’re both from the Enchanted Forest, dearie. Balem Abrasax thinks that we must therefore mean something to one another.” He omits to tell her that Balem has deduced that he is looking for someone; he won’t put Baelfire in danger any more than he already has. No one can know of his son’s planet on this world.

She frowns at him, as though recognising that he’s only telling her part of the story, and leans in toward him. She’s quite a bit smaller than him, rising up onto her toes to bring her face closer to his as she whispers: “Do you think they’re watching us?”

It’s a thought Rumpelstiltskin has already had, but he thinks it’s unlikely; he doesn’t sense the crawling buzz of this world’s version of magic in the room. However, he can’t rule it out completely. Another reason for him never to mention Baelfire’s name to Belle. He shrugs theatrically at her. “Who can say, dearie?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Eyes are everywhere.”

She laughs, the sound as clear as a bell. He can only stare at her; he wasn’t trying to be funny. Humour is an area he leaves to the heroes; his jokes tend to be rather too macabre for anyone else to laugh at them. But here this young girl is, laughing away as though his simple statement is a source of hilarity. He’s not sure whether he ought to be pleased or offended. He suspects that, were she not so beautiful, his bewilderment would be considerably less.

It’s that that makes him irritated enough to say, almost petulantly: “You’re a strange woman!”

This comment doesn’t appear to perturb her in the least. “I’ve heard that before,” she says. “My fiancé thought I was odd for loving to read as much as I do.”

He wonders vaguely if she’s noticed the effect her presence has had on him, if that’s why she’s dropped him so casually into the conversation. Then he realises that she used the past tense rather than the present. “Thought?”

Belle flushes scarlet, the colour a pretty stain on her pale cheeks. “Thinks.” She sighs. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. It’s not like we…” She stops speaking suddenly, biting her lip. Rumpelstiltskin is abruptly desperate to know what the end of her sentence would have been, desperate to know what words she’s holding back, but he doesn’t ask.

She looks as though she might be grateful for it, smiling up at him. “Well, now that we’re together, we might as well make the best of it,” she says bravely. “Did… Balem… say what he thinks we are to each other?”

Rumpelstiltskin swallows uncomfortably. “Not in so many words,” he says, fidgeting from one foot to the other. She raises one smooth eyebrow.

“But?” she prompts when he doesn’t continue speaking.

He shrugs, backing away from her. She’s too close, too lovely, and he can’t concentrate. “Oh, he thinks it’s true love, dearie,” he says flippantly. “What else?”

She looks at him thoughtfully. “And you didn’t correct him?”

This, he can answer easily. “He thinks he has a hold over me,” he says simply. She nods in immediate understanding.

“What a blow it will be to him when he realises his mistake,” she says lightly.

He feels unaccountably uncomfortable, as though this slip of a girl _ought_ to mean something to him, as though admitting that she’s only a pawn in his plans should somehow make him feel guilty. He shrugs, trying to eradicate the sensation. She’s nothing to him, and if it were a choice between her life and his son’s, she’d be dead in a minute.

She’s still watching him, her expression considering. “If he is watching…” she begins hesitantly. She stops, and then begins again. “If they are watching, shouldn’t… shouldn’t we act as though we do care for each other?” Her eyes are bright and anxious.

Rumpelstiltskin laughs, the sound high-pitched and scornful. “For each other? He’ll not believe it for a second, dearie.”

The girl frowns at him. “Doesn’t he already believe it?”

“He believes I care for you, dearie,” he explains, in the manner of a teacher clarifying something very simple to a particularly dim-witted child. “There’s no hint of your returning my supposed feelings. I imagine,” he adds drily, “that he derives great amusement from the concept.”

“Why shouldn’t I care for you too?” Belle asks. He can only stare at her; her mouth sets in a stubborn line. “Well, why not?”

His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again. “Because…” He has to cut himself off, glittering hands shaking as they gesture roughly at his own body. “Because I’m the Dark One!”

Her chin rises. “The Dark One isn’t capable of love?”

“Oh, perfectly capable, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin answers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s only that…”

“Only that what?”

“Don’t play games with me, dearie,” he hisses. “You’ll never win.”

“Just tell me,” she demands. “Only that what?”

“You know exactly—”

“Only that _what_?”

“Nobody could ever love me!” The words are out before he can stop them, spitting louder than he’d meant to speak. They hang in the air, ugly like blunt-edged knives, ringing between the two of them. Belle’s mouth is open, but she doesn’t speak. There are two spots of colour high on her cheeks.

Slowly, she steps towards him, her feet silent as they tread the polished wooden floor. There’s an expression he can’t quite place in her blue eyes, somewhere between pity and determination. Involuntarily, he finds himself taking a small step backwards.

She keeps coming, and he has to force himself not to back away further; he won’t be cowed, not by this child of a woman, no matter how disconcerting he finds that look in her eyes. She’s barely an arm’s breadth away now, watching him so intently as she moves forward. He finds his mouth opening, stuttering out the ghost of an exclamation, but he can’t bring himself to actually speak.

Belle’s fingers touch his shoulder, through his shirt; he flinches as though he’s been scalded. She seems to have expected it; she releases him, but only momentarily. Then her hand comes back, sliding around the side of his neck, touching him skin to skin for the first time. Her palm lingers on his rough granite texture, the contact sending sparks racing through him. His breath is coming in short bursts, his chest pounding. She doesn’t back away.

“What are you doing?” he croaks.

She smiles, a blisteringly beautiful smile that takes his breath away, and kisses him.


	3. How Silver-Sweet Sound Lovers' Tongues By Night

Her mouth is soft where his is hard, melting against him like liquid fire. He can’t think, can’t move, can barely breathe as she kisses him, one hand touching his cheek, her fingertips brushing down his neck. Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes are still open, although he can’t really see much; she’s too close, her face a pale blur in front of him, her lashes fluttering against his cheekbones. Her eyes are closed, as though she’s lost herself in the kiss. Vaguely, he’s aware that one of his hands has come up to rest on her hip.

Is he kissing her back? His lips are tingling at the contact, meshing into new shapes with hers, but he’s not sure he’s really kissing her. He’s too much in complete shock to do anything at all.

After a while – seconds, years? He’s not sure – Belle draws back, her blue eyes opening again. There’s a small, slightly knowing smile on her pretty face.

“What… Why did you do that?” Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t recognise his own voice, creaking and uncertain. Vulnerable.

Belle doesn’t answer; she reaches to him with both hands, cupping his face in them. She’s still smiling, impossibly. He doesn’t understand her at all.

Her touch is burning against his skin, and beyond understanding, beyond any kind of comprehension, he _wants_ her. His cock, usually so dormant, is suddenly making itself known, pressing against her body. He can only hope that her thick skirts are protecting her from feeling the evidence of his desire. She’s warm against him, her body flush against his, so soft, so pliant, her arms circling back around his neck as his grip tightens on her hip, pulling her in closer.

When she smiles, her face is so close that he can feel it against his skin. “Rumpelstiltskin…” she murmurs, her voice a breathy whisper. It undoes him to hear it.

Groaning low in his throat, he tugs her mouth back to his, sucking on her lower lip. She moans, the sound sending tremors straight down to his cock, and her arms tighten around his neck. He’s not gentle with her, and neither is she, nibbling on his lips and giving him biting little kisses all down his jawline. One of her legs presses in between both of his, her thigh grinding against his groin, and he slides his hands underneath her, pulling her tightly against his body.

He can feel the edge of the bed behind his knees; somehow he’s managed to back up far enough that it’s right behind him, and Belle comes willingly with him when he pulls her gently toward it. Her fingers find the buttons of his shirt, deftly undoing them, tracing the scaled planes of his chest lightly. Rumpelstiltskin feels an unpleasant, sick sensation in the pit of his stomach, reaching up to capture her hand in his.

“Nothing to look at there, dearie,” he says quietly.

Belle narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not _ugly_ , you know,” she says softly. He hates the expression of sympathy in her eyes.

She touches his chest again, and this time, when she reaches for a button, he doesn’t try to stop her. Better she knows now what she’s getting herself into; the fact that she wants to touch him at all is astonishing beyond all belief.

Slowly, the shirt falls away from his chest, his stomach coming into view underneath it. Belle’s hands stroke down his front, her touch soft and hot, and he shudders in equal parts nervousness and desire. She pulls the shirt back off his shoulders, the sleeves sliding down his arms so that his torso is completely exposed. Rumpelstiltskin shivers at the sensation of being so naked in front of her, half aroused and half humiliated by the feeling. And, he has to admit, partly aroused _because_ he’s humiliated. He wants more, more of her, more of Belle, and instinctively he reaches out for her.

She kisses him again, and while she’s pressed up against him his hands find the lacing at the back of her dress, tugging at the tangled strings. They loosen as he tugs at them, her corset falling away from her body, and he feels her smile against his face as he bares her a little more.

Her mouth grinds against his with increasing urgency, and he’s lost in the heady rush of kissing her. His hands move with more purpose now, pulling at her clothes, pulling them both back against the bed until they’re falling sideways onto it. He kisses her mouth, her cheeks, her long, smooth neck, and she’s gasping and moaning, her fingers clawing at his chest, marking him deliciously.

It doesn’t make any sense but she wants him; he can feel it in the humming of her heartbeat, her blood rushing hot under her skin as she clings to him. One more little clasp and she’s tumbling out of her dress, small and delicate underneath it, and straight into his waiting arms. She fumbles with the buttons fastening his trousers, pulling open the laces at the top, and dragging his cock out into her small hand. He gasps as she wraps her fingers around his length, the touch so unfamiliar, so exhilarating.

“Belle,” he pants. “I can’t… I haven’t…”

“It’s alright,” she soothes, her thumb rubbing up and over the head. He tips his head back, groaning at the contact, slick juices leaking out of him as she rubs. “I’ll look after you.”

He nearly sobs at that; how long since anyone has offered to care for him? How long since anyone has touched him, wanted even to look at him? He’s not sure Milah was ever this gentle, and it’s been hundreds of years even since her. Hundreds of years since he’s had anyone but his own hand for company. And now here, impossibly, is this beautiful young girl he doesn’t know at all, wanting him, wanting to be with him.

She mouths at his hip, one hand still stroking his cock, slowly, leisurely, each draw dragging a deep groan out of him. In return, he pulls at the soft white fabric still covering her, exposing the creamy white skin of her thighs, the little thatch of rough curls between her legs. She inhales a shuddering breath, her eyes fluttering closed as his fingers brush through them. The pressure on his cock increases, the strokes becoming sloppier, more rushed.

Belle is wet between her legs, slippery on his hand as he touches her mound, grinding upwards into the heel of his hand. She releases him as his finger slides inside her, her mouth falling open. No one has ever responded to him like this; no one has ever wanted him, craved his touch, the way she does. She’s gasping his name, over and over, in between moans that seem to come from some deep desperate part of her beyond her control. Emboldened by his success, Rumpelstiltskin pushes another finger into her, feeling her contract and spasm around him, faster and faster until…

Abruptly, she pushes him away. Tendrils of her dark pretty hair are sweat-stuck to the sides of her face; her cheeks are flushed with colour, and she’s panting. Carefully, he removes his hand from between her legs, averting his eyes from the delicious sight of her juices spilling out over her fingers. He wants to lick them, wants to taste her on his skin. He doesn’t.

He’s gone too far; he can see it in her eyes. He’s not certain how he managed it, but somehow he’s gone too far, and now she wants him to stop. She’s breathless, one hand square against his chest, and he’s suddenly aware of how very exposed they both are, naked and sweaty, pressed up against each other. He shrinks back, retreating.

Belle stops him with a hand on his arm. “No – wait! I need—” She breaks off, her blush deepening. “Please… You – inside me, please…”

He can barely believe her, staring with wide eyes. “You want that?”

She smiles breathlessly at him, curling her hands around his wrists and guiding them to her hips as she lies back against the pillows. “Yes,” she says simply. “I want that.”

His hands must feel rough against the softness of her skin, but she only shivers in delicious anticipation as they slide up her waist and sides, releasing her breasts from the last vestiges of her clothing. One thumb rubs over her left nipple, and it stiffens instantly under his touch.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she sighs fondly. Hearing his own name is like a beacon; he leans forward and kisses her jaw, her chin, her wide smiling mouth. Her slender body shudders against him, plump softness against rough scales, and he almost comes there and then, humiliating himself still further before her.

He brushes a long curl out of her eyes with one blackened fingernail, staring down at her in wonder. He wants, in equal parts, to be both rough and gentle with her, to take her hard with passion and desire and to make love to her slowly, holding her close in his arms. She sighs again, a deep, contented sound. He wants to hear her make that sound over and over again.

Rumpelstiltskin touches his fingertips against the damp thatch of hair between her legs again, enjoying the sensation of her writhing against them. He’s so hard, harder than he’s ever been in his life, throbbing and leaking and _longing_ , and he grasps himself tightly as he navigates the short distance between them.

Belle gasps as his cock presses at her thighs, opening her legs wide for him, her knees bending, feet planted on the bed. She’s murmuring something under her breath; when he strains to listen, he realises that it’s his name again, like a talisman she’s holding onto. Slowly, so very slowly, he guides himself inside her, feeling her pulse around him, bucking her hips up to meet his.

When he’s full and flush inside her, he stops, looking down at her beautiful face – sweaty and pink, but still beautiful – in absolute amazement. He wants to stop and wonder at how – at why – but more than that, he wants to enjoy this moment. It may be the only faint glimmer of light in all his centuries, and he’s going to take it and live it to the full. He draws out of her again, her thighs slick against his length.

And thrusts, hard, inside her.

Belle cries out, the sound ringing straight through him, and her arms come up around him, her fingernails digging into his ridged back. “More,” she breathes. “Oh, Rumpelstiltskin, more, please, more!”

He’ll not deny a lady a request made in such an endearing fashion. He thrusts again, and again, harder and harder, her cries increasing in tempo and pitch at every movement. It’s both gentle and passionate, rough and beautiful. Her eyes are the loveliest colour of anything he’s ever seen before, gazing up at him, her mouth open as she groans beneath him. He’s so close now, his pleasure building and rising, but he won’t let himself crest the wave. Not until she does too.

He rolls over, sitting upright with his legs off the side of the bed, and Belle sitting on his lap. She gasps loudly at the change in angle, sucking marks into his neck, his collarbone, his shoulders. Her hair brushes across his chest, and all he wants to do is to keep her forever this way. He pulls her closer, driving deeper into her body, and she clenches around him with a cry.

“Oh, oh, I’m—”

He can feel it thundering through her, breaking her apart like so many tiny pieces of glass, and he lets himself go too with an almighty shout. It shatters him, the breaking of a wave against the shoreline, the explosion of a star somewhere deep in space. He’s inside her, she’s inside him, they’re deeper inside each other than anyone has ever been—

Gently, gently, he comes back to the present, to reality. Here she is, shuddering and soft in his arms, her hair strewn out across him, naked and beautiful. Here he is, trembling and lost, ugly and bare, but she wants him anyway. It’s beyond comprehension, even to him, and so he decides not to try and comprehend it. Why question a miracle? To be wanted, to be desired, to be touched…

Belle strokes his face with a damp hand, looking just about as torn apart as he feels. She’s smiling still, and he can only stare at her, his brow furrowed. He catches her hand in his, pressing it against his skin.

“Why?” he asks. He swallows, tries to wet his dry mouth. “I’m a monster.”

“I’ve seen monsters,” she answers. “You’re not a monster.”

Rumpelstiltskin has no idea what to say to that; he could tell her that she’s wrong – because she _is_ – but he doesn’t know how to make her believe it. She must have heard all the stories about the Dark One; must have heard at least some of the things he’s done, some of the deals he’s made. His reputation has always preceded him, and very useful it’s sometimes been too.

“You don’t fear me?” he says, although he already knows the answer. If she feared him, she wouldn’t be here, straddling his lap, his softening cock still inside her.

Belle shakes her head. “I’ve never heard anything of you that would give me cause to fear,” she says. “You showed me the window.”

Gently, he lifts her up, pushing her back against the bed so that they can talk more comfortably. “The window was already here, dearie,” he points out.

“You showed it to me because you thought I’d like to see it,” she counters. He can’t answer that; it’s nothing more than the truth, but he can’t explain it.

“You must have heard tales of the Dark One in the Enchanted Forest,” he says instead, focusing on a point he knows he can win. “Everyone is afraid of the Dark One.”

“Well, I don’t know _why_ ,” she says. “I’ve never heard that you’ve done anything malicious or cruel. You just make deals. What’s so bad about that? Deals are struck every day.”

Rumpelstiltskin blinks. “People don’t usually like the terms of my deals,” he says cautiously.

Belle shrugs a little impatiently, the movement bringing a few locks of her pretty hair tumbling down over her creamy shoulder. “Why, because you deal in magic? Or because they don’t want to uphold their end of the bargain, when all’s said and done?”

“Both,” he says quietly.

“Well, then, they shouldn’t make deals with you in the first place,” she says robustly. “No one’s making them do it.”

“Some would disagree,” Rumpelstiltskin says.

“Some would disagree if you told them the grass is green,” Belle answers. “I like to read, Rumpelstiltskin. I’ve read every book about the Dark One I could get my hands on, and none of them say that you’ve done anything evil. You’ve only made bargains, and expected that they be stuck to. Am I wrong?”

“I’ve done more than you know,” he says slowly. “I’ve killed, and not just for a deal.”

She tips her head sideways knowingly. “Who have you killed?”

He doesn’t know why he’s having this conversation with her; why is he trying to convince her of his innate darkness? Why not take her optimism as it is? Why engage with her at all? But something compels him to be truthful. It’s been a long time since he’s confided in anyone.

“Soldiers who were trying to take my son away to fight,” he says. He hesitates. “My wife.”

That’s done the trick; he hears her suck in a sharp, shaky breath. “You killed your wife?”

“I—” He ought to be relieved, that she’s understood him at last, but instead he finds himself rushing to explain himself. “She left us, my boy and me,” he says. “I told him she had died, rather than tell him she’d rather be a pirate’s whore than his mother.” Against all the odds, Belle places a hand on his arm. He tries not to look at it, can’t understand the girl. “I found her again later, after I’d come into my power. I thought…” He takes a deep breath; has he ever spoken of this before? “They told me he’d kidnapped her, the pirate. I thought she’d want to return, want to see her son. I’d been too afraid, too weak to rescue her before. But then…”

“She told you she’d gone willingly?” Belle guesses. He nods jerkily.

“She said she’d never loved me,” he says quietly. His hands are clenched into tight fists, grinding into his sides. “The last time I’d seen the pirate, he’d beaten me down, mocked me for losing my wife to him. And now… I was powerful, and he held the key to my son’s return in his hands.”

“Your son?” Belle queries.

He’s told her this much; he may as well tell her all of it. “Lost to me, through my own error. I’ve been searching for him for centuries. The bean you touched to come here would have led me to him; the pirate had one just like it. It was that I was searching for, not Milah. But then I saw her, and she said she had never loved me, said she never could, wasn’t even sorry for leaving her son behind…”

“You killed her,” Belle finishes for him. She pauses. “And are you sorry for it?”

Rumpelstiltskin bites his tongue so hard that he can taste blood, thick and coppery, in his mouth. “I’m not sorry she’s dead,” he says harshly. “I’m not sorry she was punished for what she did to our child.”

She’s so much cleverer than he could have anticipated, her eyes narrowing as she fixes them on his. “But are you sorry for killing her?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “I’m sorry I killed her.”

The hand on his arm, still there despite his story, tightens almost imperceptibly; Belle rests her warm head against his shoulder. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she says gently.

He can’t help but let out a snort at that. “Yes, dearie, I’ll wager even you _make mistakes_ ,” he says bitterly. “I doubt you’ve ever killed anyone, though, or lost your son due to your own cowardice!”

There’s just the slightest pause before she answers him; her voice wavers just a little. “I started the most recent Ogre War,” she says. “I wasn’t able to prevent my fiancé – before he was my fiancé – from torturing an ogre’s child. My father wanted the creature killed, but I released him. That’s how the war began.” She swallows, the sound loud in her throat. “I touched the bean that brought me here, and left my father behind. Without me there to marry, my fiancé’s family has no motivation to support my father in the fight.”

There’s a long silence following her words. Then Rumpelstiltskin says tentatively: “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Belle laughs shakily, leaning up to brush her lips against his mouth. “We all do as best we can,” she says. She pauses. “Is that why you’re here? To find your son?”

Can he tell her? Is it a betrayal of Baelfire, to confess everything to her? She’s almost figured it out by herself already; he supposes that if telling her the truth is wrong, it’s already too late. He gives a single, terse nod.

She hums in thought as she settles back into his arms. “In the morning,” she says sleepily, “we’ll have to find him, then.”

And Rumpelstiltskin, heaven help him, believes her.


	4. Gilded Tombs Do Worms Enfold

Rumpelstiltskin awakens in stages the next morning; although he’s aware that he’s no longer dreaming, he keeps his eyes closed for some time, enjoying the sensation of his body sinking into a comfortable mattress for the first time in weeks. His arms are full of _Belle_ , her soft flesh warm against him, her hair fanning out across his chest. He can’t remember when he’s ever felt so content, so secure.

Of course, they’re still prisoners, so it can’t last long, but he’s determined after their discussion the previous evening to enjoy it for as long as he possibly can. Where else will he find a woman so embracing of him, of all his flaws, so willing to accept the wrong he’s done in his life? It makes him want to prove her right, as foolish as such a thought may be. It makes him want to do better in the future.

Belle shifts above him, blinking awake, and he knows that his quiet moments of self-reflection are over. She’s beaming at him, however, so he minds very little. Daringly, he swoops forward to press a small close-mouthed kiss to her smiling lips; she blushes and laughs, so he does it again.

Waking up, bathing together in the large tub, washing each other with the soaps and mystifying oils left for them, reminds Rumpelstiltskin of a long-forgotten domesticity he once had with Milah. Once upon a time, they were this young, this shy, simply enjoying the pleasure of one another’s company through simple routines. He and Belle talk as they wash, about nothing of any consequence, but it’s enough to chase away just a little of his loneliness. Belle chatters about her home, about books she’s read – she’s read almost as many as he has, clearly not lying when she said she liked to read – about her father, her hopes of travelling, the things she’d like to see and do in the world. Rumpelstiltskin’s responses are shorter, but she doesn’t seem to mind. He’s simply happy listening to her.

After their bath, Belle dresses in more practical clothes than the gown she was wearing the day before; sturdy travelling trousers and a tunic from the wardrobe, all perfectly fitted to her slender form. She winds her hair into a thick braid that coils over one shoulder, tugging on a pair of soft leather boots. When she’s finished, she kisses him, pink and beautiful, and he can’t resist throwing his arms around her.

They sit together on the futon in front of the window, looking out at the dark twists of iron below them, swept with reddened mists, and after an hour or so, Rumpelstiltskin hears a click at the door that signals that their little bubble is about to be burst. He’s expecting the lizard, but is surprised; the man that enters looks far more civilised than anyone else he’s seen in Balem’s employ. He’s tall, his clothes neat and professional, and although his face is still oddly misshapen, his cheeks and head covered in thick speckled feathers, his eyes are sensible and serious.

Belle and Rumpelstiltskin stand up slowly; Belle’s face is calm and unruffled, although she slips her hand into his all the same. She lifts her chin at the arrival.

The bird-man gives a short bow, the rounded mail on his high-collared tunic clinking slightly. “Good morning,” he says as he rises. “My name is Malidictes. I hope you’ve found your accommodations to your liking.”

Rumpelstiltskin watches him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Very comfortable, dearie,” he says, his voice jarring even to his own ears. In these quiet hours with Belle, he’s found his naturally shrill tones softening, becoming something closer to human. “A vast improvement on my previous lodgings.”

Malidictes has the grace to look just a little discomfited by the reminder of Rumpelstiltskin’s cell. “An unfortunate error,” he says smoothly. “My lady would like to apologise for your treatment at her brother’s hands.”

Her brother? Rumpelstiltskin raises an eyebrow. So Malidictes doesn’t work for Balem, but for his sister, whoever she might be. He wonders why the sister has sent a man, rather than the brother. Does Balem know that Malidictes is here? He shakes his head; there are a thousand possibilities, but he can’t possibly know the truth of the matter without a few more answers.

Belle seems to have drawn the same conclusion. “And who is your lady?” she asks, sounding just slightly imperious. Of course, she was born a lady of some consequence; Rumpelstiltskin, in contrast, is no more than a peasant by birth, no matter how high his power has brought him now.

Malidictes seems to have been expecting the question. “Lady Kalique Abrasax, only daughter of the Sovereign,” he says grandly. Rumpelstiltskin almost expects him to sweep a bow, so full of his mistress’ importance does he seem. “I’m under instruction to convey you to her now.”

“And what if we do not wish to be conveyed?” Rumpelstiltskin says quickly. Belle turns and looks sharply at him, but she seems to trust him enough not to interrupt. “We are, after all, here against our will.”

The bird-man seems a little bemused by the question. “Then, of course, you are free to refuse,” he says politely. “Were it within my lady’s power to take you home, she would do so. You are not a prisoner here.”

“We were locked in,” Belle points out drily.

Malidictes wrings his hands together, looking disconcerted. “Not by the will of my lady,” he says at last. “As soon as she heard of it, she sent me here to release you.”

“So you’re our rescuer!” Rumpelstiltskin exclaims mockingly. “Well, well, dearie, you should have said so.” He gestures expansively towards the double doors, now standing open behind Malidictes. “Convey away, dearie. To the Lady Kalique!”

His sudden change of countenance clearly bewilders Malidictes – which was, of course, his intention – but the bird-man doesn’t say anything further, merely bowing and retreating out of the room, gesturing for them to follow.

Belle’s blue eyes grow wider as they walk down the large corridors, gazing at the sparkling, inky-black glass at her feet, and the gold and brass fittings on the walls and ceilings, and Rumpelstiltskin remembers her excitement simply at seeing the view from the window. He’s struck by a sudden longing to show her all around the Enchanted Forest, to take her travelling, to show her the wonders he’s seen in all his centuries. What better way to put his knowledge to good use, than to share it with her?

They don’t have to walk very far this time; Malidictes stops in front of a large, slate-grey hatch in the wall that looks somewhat different than the doors that had led to the bedroom. Rumpelstiltskin eyes the smooth metallic surface suspiciously.

Malidictes sees him looking. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says. “These doors will take us outside the station. My lady is waiting on a ship just beyond the bridge.”

It’s Belle who answers, barely concealed excitement in her voice. “We’re going outside?”

Now that he thinks about it, Rumpelstiltskin can’t remember the last time he was outside; all Balem’s accommodations have been indoors, from his great halls to the cells underneath the floor. To a creature like the Dark One, accustomed to the beautiful woods and countryside of the Enchanted Forest, being shut away from the outside world is abhorrent. His skin has been crawling from the lack of sunshine and air for weeks. Perhaps, he thinks idly, it’s that that has dulled his skin, made it glitter just that bit less. He’s heard healers say that keeping a person out of the sunlight can make them ill; perhaps this is his version of it. He won’t admit it, but he finds that he’s just as eager to step outside as Belle certainly is.

“Yes,” Malidictes tells Belle, placing one, taloned hand against the gleaming doors. They slide noiselessly open, and the three of them step outside.

The air, the wind! Rumpelstiltskin positively revels in feeling it against his face, warming his skin. For a few moments, he simply stands, face upturned to the boiling skies, letting it wash through him. Belle is still holding his hand, fingers interlinked, and he feels her squeeze it tightly.

“This way, please,” Malidictes says. There’s just the slightest edge of urgency to his voice, and Rumpelstiltskin cracks one eye open to look at him. He wonders, suddenly, how Balem will react when he finds that his prisoners have been taken by his sister.

They’re standing on a sturdy iron bridge, and when he looks to the end of it, Rumpelstiltskin sees an enormous steel contraption. It looks as though it could be a house, except that it’s floating in the air, all grates and wings and gusts of hot air coming from slotted openings on its underbelly. He remembers Malidictes referring to a ship, and in a way he can see what the bird-man meant, but it’s like no ship he’s ever seen. For one thing, there’s no water; magic can’t be the thing helping it to fly. It must be the technology that Balem spoke about.

Belle isn’t looking at the ship; she’s too busy peering over the edge of the bridge, her free hand wrapped around the iron railings. Indeed, even Balem’s enormous windows didn’t do justice to what’s actually out here. Rumpelstiltskin can see wide scarlet-tinged vistas of iron and glass, intricate structures curving around and out of his line of vision, exquisite windows and architecture all curling together to make a city of metal, all flushed with the red light that beams down from the swirling sky.

“It’s beautiful,” Belle sighs, her tone wondrous, and for once, even as cynical as he is, Rumpelstiltskin can only agree.

“Please,” Malidictes says, sounding almost anxious now. “This way.”

He’d like to interrogate the bird-man further, but Malidictes is already walking away towards the ship, so he pulls gently at Belle’s hand, gesturing for them to follow him. She nods, and the trust in her lovely eyes burns into Rumpelstiltskin’s chest.

It’s not far down the walkway to the ship; Malidictes waits by the ship, looking extremely relieved that they’ve come with him so promptly. The side of the ship nearest to them has another pair of dull steel doors; they open to the simple touch of the bird-man’s palm, and Rumpelstiltskin and Belle are swiftly gestured inside.

The interior of the ship could not be more different to Balem’s grand, sinister halls. Most of it is metallic, but it’s tempered with warm wooden balustrades, and the floor is a pale grey that reflects the strange flat lights in the ceiling, bouncing their beam around the room. There are more attendants, standing to attention against the walls in light blue tunics, but Malidictes seems to have seniority, nodding briefly to one or two of them but speaking to none. He doesn’t give them much opportunity to look around, leading them immediately down a short corridor straight ahead.

The Lady Kalique Abrasax, only daughter to the Sovereign, sits resplendent and beautiful in a softly draping blue gown on a little purple stool in the large, circular room that is situated at the end of the corridor. There’s no mistaking her for anyone else; Rumpelstiltskin recognises the authority, the wash of power humming around her. She cannot be anyone but Balem’s sister. Her hair hangs in crimped brown ringlets around her smooth, beautiful face. She rises as they enter.

“Welcome.” Her voice is light, delicate like Balem’s but without the strange, whispering intonation he uses. “I am Kalique Abrasax.”

Rumpelstiltskin sweeps a deep bow, albeit with his usual scornful flourishes. Beside him, Belle dips into a curtsey, her back ramrod straight. “Rumpelstiltskin, at your service,” he says. He gestures to Belle. “The Lady Belle of Avonlea.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Kalique says warmly. Belle inclines her head in such a way that indicates that it could not be anything less. Rumpelstiltskin hides an amused smile.

“May I offer you refreshment?” Kalique asks, gesturing to a table behind her. It’s groaning with food, great bowls of fruits – some of which are foreign even to him – plates of pastries, cold meats folded around sliced cheese, a steaming platter of spiced eggs. Rumpelstiltskin realises, with some surprise, that he’s hungry; it’s been a long time since the last meal he was served in his cell, and Balem never fed him enough that he could really call himself _full_. Belle, too, eyes the food eagerly.

Kalique obviously notices their preoccupation. “My servers will assist you,” she says, gesturing to one of her attendants. He steps forward immediately, nodding stiffly at Belle and Rumpelstiltskin.

When his head comes up, his dark eyes meet Rumpelstiltskin’s, and _flash_.

He almost has to take a step backwards at the intensity of the server’s expression. Is it a warning? The attendant has already turned away, picking up a pitcher of a bright blue liquid, clear like water but so oddly coloured, and pouring some out into two flutes on a silver tray. What could he be warning about? Is it Kalique? If he’s trying to ensure that Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t trust her easy, welcoming manner, he’s late in the game. He already finds her much more suspicious than her brother; at least Balem never hid behind smiles and hospitality.

He tries to meet the server’s eyes again as he and Belle accept the drinks – sweeter than water, but just as refreshing – but the man refuses to look at him, returning to the table of food to prepare them each a plate.

“My brother believes he can sense the world that you’re from, merely by your smell,” Kalique observes as Rumpelstiltskin and Belle begin eating. “I confess, it’s not a power I possess.” She laughs prettily. “To me, you smell of rosewater and lavender. But then, I didn’t know there _were_ other dimensions. There are so many planets on this one; the subject has never particularly captured my attention.”

Rumpelstiltskin swallows the mouthful of bread and cheese he’s just taken, eyeing Kalique carefully. She’s taking great pains to assure him that she has no interest in seeing where he’s from – in visiting his realm, the way Balem so obviously wants to. She’s trying to allay his fears. But to what purpose?

“You’ve visited many of these… planets?” he asks carefully. She shrugs.

“It is my birth right,” she says simply. “The planets of this world belong to my family, to my mother, the Sovereign.”

“Your mother?” Belle says suddenly, speaking for the first time. Rumpelstiltskin looks quickly over to her. “Your mother is the Sovereign?”

“Of course,” Kalique says, sounding puzzled by the question. “Who else? She owns every planet there is in this dimension.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s brow furrows as he watches her, trying to work her out. “Does Balem know you’ve taken us, dearie?” he asks slowly.

“Oh, Balem,” she answers, sounding just a little impatient. She sits back down on her stool, her silvery blue dress fanning out around her ankles. “The only thing he thinks about more than licking our mother’s feet is power.” She smiles wolfishly. “It’ll do him good to lose a little of it.”

“We represent power to you?” Belle asks.

“You represent nothing to me,” Kalique replies baldly. “I want you because my brother had you. You are of interest to him, and so you are of interest to me.” Rumpelstiltskin almost believes her. Almost.

“Careful, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin twitters mockingly, just to see how she’ll react. “Envy’s an ugly colour on anyone, even someone as lovely as you.”

Kalique tosses her ringleted head. “I don’t envy Balem,” she says, although there’s a slight note of petulance in her tone. She looks at him consideringly. “You’ve felt his power.” It’s not a question.

Rumpelstiltskin bows his head. “Indeed.”

“I see no good in allowing him more power than he already has,” she says slyly. “He’s already our mother’s favourite.” A faint note of disgust enters her voice. “He spends all his time in her rooms, sitting at her feet, begging for her affection. I’d not allow him to have more than what she already gives him. He’s a dangerous man, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“That, I believe, dearie,” he says. He puts his empty plate down on a nearby table, light oak with darker plum-coloured vines embossed into it; an attendant – not the one with the intense eyes – rushes forward at once to take it. Taking a step forward, Rumpelstiltskin draws nearer to Kalique. “But I also believe that you are a dangerous woman, Lady Kalique.”

The smile she gives him is as soft and wily as a fox. “Oh?”

“You have some nefarious purpose for my world,” he says. “You want to own it, just as your family owns all the planets in this one.” He can feel the familiar sparks going off in his mind, the way they always do when he draws connections together, works out some complicated plan. “Perhaps there is no claim on another dimension. Perhaps whoever came across it first would own it outright, with no deference to the Sovereign.”

Kalique smiles all the wider. “Perhaps,” she acknowledges. Her face grows serious again. “But perhaps, all things considered, I would be a better keeper for your world than my brother or my mother.”

“Perhaps our world doesn’t need a keeper,” Belle flashes, her face imperious and angry. Kalique only laughs.

“One of us will find it eventually,” she says lightly. “We are the oldest and most powerful of all our kind. Now that we know of the existence of another world, you can be sure that an Abrasax will possess it. The only question is which of us it is.”

“How?” Rumpelstiltskin asks pointedly. “Both my lady and myself came here by… well, dearie, shall we say by a one-way ticket? There is no return that I know of.”

“That you know of,” Kalique repeats succinctly.

Rumpelstiltskin takes another step forward. “Yes,” he says, his voice suddenly low. “That I know of. Your brother never forgot, Lady Kalique, that on my world I am considered the most powerful of all sorcerers. My magic may not work here, so here I am weak, but don’t discount my knowledge, _dearie_. Believe me, I have spent centuries finding the path here. I doubt the return will be any easier, and then,” he finishes menacingly, stepping forward again, “then, perhaps _your_ power will wane. You’ll be in _my_ territory then.”

Kalique never loses her smile in all the time that he speaks, although her eyes glitter with interest at what he has to say. “Centuries,” she repeats when he’s finished. “Centuries? Centuries are nothing to us, Rumpelstiltskin. If it takes centuries to find a way, then that’s what it takes. I am much, much older than I seem, you know.”

Yes, he knows; he can feel it in her very aura. He stands stock-still. Is it possible? Can she find a way through to the Enchanted Forest?

“There are four of us, you see,” Kalique says, moving a little closer. Her dress swishes around her knees, and Belle presses a little closer to Rumpelstiltskin’s side. “Myself, Balem, our youngest brother Titus, and our mother. You’d not want _Titus_ to take your world.” She rolls her eyes as though the thought is ridiculous. “He’s immature, and the greatest liar in any world. Balem would only deliver it straight to our mother’s feet, and believe me, she has enough power.” She shudders delicately. “She and Balem… They’re too close. And that only leaves me! So the question is, Rumpelstiltskin, most powerful sorcerer in your dimension, who do you trust to take possession of your world?” Her eyes flicker over to Belle, and then back again. “You and your lady have inadvertently become its spokespersons.”

His mouth is dry. “I trust none of you,” he croaks, suddenly afraid, because in her own way, Kalique is just as fearsome as Balem.

She smiles at him as though she’d expected no other answer. “Perhaps the two of you ought to take some rest, and discuss the matter alone,” she says. “Take as long as you need.”

She gestures, and the dark-eyed attendant whose eyes had flashed so brightly at Rumpelstiltskin in such warning – although what he could have expected Rumpelstiltskin to do, he doesn’t know – steps forward. Again, he doesn’t look at Rumpelstiltskin, his eyes on Kalique.

Kalique turns back to Rumpelstiltskin. “My attendant will take you to your rooms.” She smiles graciously at Belle. “You’ll even have your own balcony, Lady Belle,” she says.

She nods to the server. “You can ask him for anything you need. His name is Neal.”


	5. Come Not Between The Dragon And His Wrath

It’s very difficult to walk quietly behind Neal, when Rumpelstiltskin is so sure that the attendant has something to say to him. What it could be, he’s not certain, but there’s just a chance that he could use it to help him escape the Abrasax family and their sinister designs on the Enchanted Forest. His senses are tingling, his nerves on edge.

Neal leads them out of Kalique’s room, down another small corridor and through a pair of steel doors. The room that awaits them is very similar to the last, although just a little smaller, with a bed tucked behind a screen and, as promised, a balcony through a glass door off to one side. Belle casts a longing glance at the window, but she doesn’t move to look out, although even from here Rumpelstiltskin can see that they’re moving slowly through the curling mists.

The doors close behind them, and Neal exhales.

Rumpelstiltskin turns to him at once. “Who are you?” he says. He steps a little closer. “What do you know?”

There’s a guarded expression on the young man’s face; his eyes flicker between Rumpelstiltskin and Belle, as though he’s not certain how much he ought to say. Rumpelstiltskin can feel his temper rising, but he pushes it down. There’s a backbone to this boy; he can see it in those intense dark eyes, and he gets the sense that attempting to intimidate him is unlikely to be the way to gain information.

“My name is Neal Cassidy,” the boy says at last, proving that patience was indeed the correct method. “I come from another world, like you.”

Belle starts at that. “How many worlds _are_ there?” she exclaims.

“Thousands,” Rumpelstiltskin says distractedly. He’s learned _that_ in his attempts to cross them, to find Baelfire. He refocuses his attention on Neal. “How did you come to be here?”

“I spent some time in Neverland,” Neal answers, his eyes stilling on Rumpelstiltskin’s face.

There’s a long, long silence after his words. Belle looks a little confused, obviously unfamiliar with Neverland; Rumpelstiltskin stands like a statue as he processes what the attendant has said.

Neverland. The one place he’d be thankful never to have to so much as _think_ of again, let alone visit. There are strange, nebulous portals in and out of Neverland; it makes sense that Neal might have stumbled through one of them and into this world. He’s only fortunate, Rumpelstiltskin thinks, that he was caught by Kalique rather than Balem. Balem would have scented Pan’s world on his skin in a moment.

Peter Pan… It’s hard to say whose name strikes more fear into Rumpelstiltskin’s heart: Peter Pan, or Balem Abrasax. Peter Pan, or more accurately, Malcolm, Rumpelstiltskin’s father. It’s been hundreds of years since he’s seen his father, but the thought of him is still enough to give him chills.

At last, he says: “I see.” There’s very little else to say about it; he has no intention of explaining to either Neal or Belle what the talk of Neverland means to him. “How long have you been here?”

“Since I was a boy,” Neal replies. “I spent a few years scrounging for work around Orous – that’s the central planet here – and Kalique took me on seven years ago.” He moves just a little closer; Belle, who has so far remained fairly quiet, cocks her head in interest. “I’ve heard a lot, living here.”

“Such as?” she says.

Neal frowns. “Who are you?” he asks. The question is abrasive, but not unfriendly. He looks between Rumpelstiltskin and Belle. “Who are you to each other?”

Rumpelstiltskin opens his mouth – and then closes it again. How can he answer that question? He’s not even sure why Neal is asking it. Belle… beautiful Belle, with her lovely eyes and her enormous heart, may have spent the night with him, may have forgiven him all his mistakes, but he doesn’t know how to quantify her. How to explain what she means to him, after just one night together.

Belle doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he’s unable to answer what ought to be a relatively simple query. She moves forward, slipping her little hand into the crook of his elbow, and smiles up at him, her dark head resting against his shoulder. Neal’s eyes widen, and he turns almost accusingly to Rumpelstiltskin.

“ _You_ found someone to love you?”

The question hangs in the air; it’s shocking, a douse of cold water over Rumpelstiltskin’s head, but it also awakens something in him. A fire, deep in the pit of his belly, stirring his mind into action.

You _found someone to love you?_ As if the boy knows him, knows how ridiculous that would be. It could merely be his appearance, but the look in Neal’s eyes…

“Bae?”

Neal doesn’t speak, but Rumpelstiltskin can almost hear his heart increasing in tempo; a vein is pulsing at the side of his neck. His son. His son, grown up into a young man, taller than his father, standing in front of him after all these years with his mouth pressed into a flat, heavy line, although his lips are trembling.

“Bae,” he says again, surer now, because who else could this be but his son? “Baelfire, my Baelfire.” His voice is shaking with emotion, and he has to fight to keep the tears from spilling down his scaled cheeks. He reaches forward blindly, not sure what he means to do but just needing to touch his son—

Baelfire makes the minutest, tiniest motion backward. It’s enough. Rumpelstiltskin lets his arm fall to his side.

“Son, I can’t… I can’t ask you to forgive me,” he says. His voice has none of its usual high-pitched, singsong quality. He sounds broken. “I’m so sorry you had to grow up alone. I’m sorry for everything.”

Baelfire is _beautiful_. He’s shining, broad-shouldered and muscular, with curling dark hair and laughter lines underneath his eyes. He’s found himself an adult without his father to guide him. When he speaks, his voice is clipped and business-like, although Rumpelstiltskin can hear the quaver underneath his words.

“I’m glad you don’t expect forgiveness, because I don’t forgive you,” he says flatly. “I’m only speaking to you because the Enchanted Forest is in danger, and it may have been years since I was last there, but it’s still my home, and I intend to protect it.” He looks keenly at Rumpelstiltskin. “You and I have nothing else to say to each other.”

He can’t speak, can’t _move_ under the force of Baelfire’s words. He drops his head. It’s no more than he deserves. “I understand.” Beside him, Belle squeezes his arm almost imperceptibly.

“Anyway,” Bae says forcibly. “You need to know why Kalique – why all the Abrasax family – wants the Enchanted Forest. Why they own all the planets of this world.” He takes a deep breath. “They destroy planets, and take the people.”

There’s a silence. Then: “Why?” Belle asks, sounding shocked. “Why would they do that?”

“To stay young,” Baelfire says. “I don’t really… They don’t have magic here, not like at home, but it’s _like_ magic. They can make a potion – it’s called RegeneX – that keeps them young forever when they bathe in it. But it takes death, thousands of deaths.”

“All magic comes with a price,” Rumpelstiltskin says softly.

“Even magic that isn’t really magic,” Baelfire agrees.

Another silence, another pause while they all digest the horror of Baelfire’s information. Again, it’s Belle who breaks it. “So what can we do?” Rumpelstiltskin feels a rush of affection for her then; she’s so brave, so determined to do the right thing, despite what she must be feeling. Caught in the middle of his family drama, desperate to go home, and most likely wondering if she made a huge mistake by sharing his bed the night before. None of it stops her wanting to protect her people.

Something else is niggling at Rumpelstiltskin, though; has been niggling at him ever since he spoke with Kalique. He frowns, trying to work it out. Something that Balem said… Something that Kalique said… He says slowly: “Kalique told us that there are four members of the Abrasax family.”

“That’s right,” Baelfire says warily. “Balem, Kalique and Titus are siblings. Seraphi is their mother, the Sovereign.”

Rumpelstiltskin nods distractedly, his brain whirring furiously. “Kalique spoke as though her mother were still alive,” he says. “But Balem…” _My mother, I believe, would have liked you_ , he’d said in his low whisper. “Balem spoke about her in the past tense.”

Baelfire frowns at him. “Seraphi must be alive,” he says. “The Abrasax can be killed, but they don’t die of old age. That’s what RegeneX does.”

Belle draws in a deep breath. “You think he killed her.”

He shrugs, feeling slightly uncomfortable without quite knowing why. “It’s a tenuous theory at best, dearie,” he says. “But Kalique… both of them have insinuated that Balem has, or had, a less than healthy relationship with his mother.”

“It’s true,” Baelfire interjects. “It’s well-known.” He shudders. “I’ve spoken to some of Seraphi’s attendants. They say… well, they say that sometimes they hear Balem with her.”

“Hear him with her?” Belle queries. “Hear them…” She breaks off, her cheeks flooding with a deep pink colour. “Oh,” she says, sounding repulsed.

Rumpelstiltskin shivers a little. “I’ve spent some time with Balem,” he says with feeling. “The man is half mad, I can testify to that. And to be… _used_ so, by his own mother… It must engender very conflicted emotions.”

“Enough to kill her?” Baelfire says. Rumpelstiltskin can only shrug.

“The question is, how is it that Kalique doesn’t know it? Presumably she sees her mother on a fairly regular basis,” he says.

“It must have happened very recently,” Belle hazards.

Rumpelstiltskin acknowledges this with a fond nod before turning to his son. Baelfire is still standing upright in his attendant’s tunic, very carefully not watching his father. “Should Seraphi die, who would inherit the planets she possesses?”

“Her children,” Baelfire says slowly.

“And would that be sufficient to distract the Abrasax siblings from needing to conquer their own world?”

Baelfire bites his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth. Rumpelstiltskin longs to embrace him, longs to reach out – but he doesn’t dare. Not again. At last, Baelfire says: “The recurrence.”

“The what?” Rumpelstiltskin asks.

“Seraphi’s will is a matter of public record,” Baelfire explains. “It’s well-known that she bequeathed the richest part of her estate to her recurrence, should there be one. Many of the old families do it. If there isn’t a recurrence, Balem inherits her most valuable property.”

Belle asks the question foremost on Rumpelstiltskin’s mind. “What’s a recurrence?”

“A genetic identical. They’re very rare, and revered on this planet,” Baelfire says simply. “At the very least, should Seraphi die, there would be an enormous battle over her estate between the three Abrasax children. They’re not exactly close. And if there were a recurrence… It’s safe to say that the Enchanted Forest would be the last thing on their minds.”

“So we need Kalique to know that her mother is dead,” Belle says.

“And if she isn’t dead?” Baelfire asks, looking pointedly at Rumpelstiltskin. He swallows as he looks up at his son; he knows it’s a test. Baelfire is asking him to prove himself: is he still the same cold-hearted killer he once was? Would he kill Seraphi Abrasax to achieve their goals, were she still alive?

“If she isn’t dead, we’ll think of something else,” he says firmly. He might be imagining it, but he thinks he sees just the faintest smile twitching at the corners of Baelfire’s mouth.

The plan itself, when it takes shape between the three of them – sat discussing the harvesting of their home around the nearby coffee table as though it’s somehow _normal_ – seems almost ridiculously simple, so much so that Rumpelstiltskin finds himself arguing for its complication merely for the sake of adding some. He’s unused to formulating straightforward plots, a fact which Baelfire comments upon somewhat drily, and when he’s unable to deny it, Belle laughs merrily. Baelfire remains aloof during their planning session, but Rumpelstiltskin catches him looking curiously between himself and Belle, and by the time he stands up, discussion complete, he can feel a thaw in the air.

“I’ll speak to Kalique,” Baelfire says as he rises, stretching out his long arms in the pale blue tunic. “It may take some time to arrange, but I think she’ll agree.”

That, Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t doubt. “She’s a woman who enjoys displaying her power,” he says neutrally.

“Well, we’ll see you soon, then,” Belle says, surprising both Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire by leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Bae’s cheek. “Good luck.”

“Until later,” Baelfire says. He hesitates a little; Rumpelstiltskin itches to put his arms around his son, but before he can act on the impulse, Bae jerks a curt nod towards him and swiftly exits. The silvery door closes behind him, and Rumpelstiltskin is alone with his Belle.

His Belle. How long since he started thinking of her in such a fashion? He wonders if she’d be offended by the implication; the half-smile, almost sly, that she’s directing his way indicates not. He’d been half-afraid that she’d be put off by Baelfire’s attitude towards him – it had been humbling, to be rejected so definitely in front of her – but he supposes that if she can accept his odd appearance, his macabre tales of his past, and his sordid reputation, a little familial discord won’t send her running for the hills, much as it ought to.

“It’ll probably take him a while to get everything in order,” she says. Her hands are clasped behind her back as she moves towards him, and the motion pushes her breasts prominently forward. Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin’s mouth is dry. “What should we do until then?”

“I don’t – Balem will…” Why did he mention Balem? The man’s an integral part of their plan, of course, but when Belle’s snaking her way across the room looking the way she does, he doesn’t want to be thinking about any of the Abrasax siblings.

She doesn’t appear to be put off, smiling all the wider. “You don’t need to be afraid of him,” she says soothingly. She grins. “I’ll protect you.”

“I’m not—” Not afraid? He shuts his mouth, unable to deny it. He’d be a fool if he weren’t afraid of Balem. Abruptly, the anticipation he’d been feeling fizzles away, leaving him feeling foolish, and slightly sick.

Belle stops in front of him, her eyes on his face, as though she’s assessing the expression she can see there. Her hands press against his collarbone, smoothing down the front of his chest. “Maybe,” she says softly, her fingers finding the waistband of his trouser, “you just need something to help you take your mind off Balem.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart leaps straight into his throat as Belle strokes him through his trousers, each light brush of her fingers sending little shivers into his groin. He’s half-hard already, barely resisting the temptation to rut against her hand like a dog in heat. He gasps as she squeezes him momentarily, bucking with less control than a teenager. Fear of Balem is certainly the last thing he’s thinking about; he wants to bare himself for her, to feel her touch him skin to skin.

“Please…” The word is almost dragged from his lips, and Belle smiles as though all she’d been waiting for was to hear it. She dips forward to press a swift kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then, slowly, sinks to her knees.

She plucks at the buttons of his trousers, tugging them down over his narrow hips and guiding them past his knees. The soft white underclothes he’s wearing beneath them are swift to follow. Rumpelstiltskin shivers at his sudden nakedness; there’s something very vulnerable about standing half-dressed while she kneels, fully clothed, with all he has to offer fully in her line of sight.

Carefully, she takes him in her hands, smoothing her fingers along his rapidly hardening length; when her thumb drags along the head, he groans aloud. Senseless, he supposes, after she’s heard his most desperate cries the night before, to try and hold back, yet he still feels ashamed of the sound. She looks up at him, and with her eyes still on his face, presses her lips to his tip.

“Belle,” he breathes. “My Belle…”

The smile she gives him at that is blinding. “Rumpelstiltskin,” she sighs, her lips still so close to his cock that the words thrum along it, making all the fine dark hairs on his upper thighs stand on end. “Rumpelstiltskin, my Rumpel.”

Her mouth opens, pink and hot and beautiful, and she sucks him in.

The feeling is indescribable. Hot sparks are running like wildfire underneath his skin, darting all over his body, lighting him up inside as she licks along his length, drawing great sucks in a pulsing rhythm, her tongue wet and sloppy and all over him. Her hands, resting on his hips, slip around his waist and downwards, holding him closer to her. He’s gasping and moaning, no longer ashamed or even truly aware of the sounds he’s making, too caught up in _Belle_ , his beautiful Belle, the feel of her, the touch of her, licking him, sucking him, her fingers digging into his arse so that he’s shaking and trembling in her grip, his arms thrown wide, until—

“Belle!” His warning comes as a shout, but she doesn’t retreat; instead, she seems to take it as encouragement, sucking harder and deeper, swallowing enthusiastically as he comes in her mouth.

She’s right there with him as he shudders and groans into completion, supporting him as he stands on legs that appear to be mostly made of jelly. Slowly, she lets his softening cock fall out of her mouth, pressing light, minnowing kisses to the knot of dark curls between his legs. Her hands release him, reaching up blindly, and he takes her wrists to help her stand. He’s still shaking, panting heavily, and she curls herself into his side and kisses his neck.

“How do you feel now?” she whispers.

Rumpelstiltskin considers – with what portion of his mind he has remaining to him – this question. How does he feel? His darkened lips, thin, scaled and cracked, curve into an uncharacteristic smile.

“Like I could conquer the world, dearie,” he says.

“Or save it,” Belle counters.

“Or save it,” he agrees.

After such an exertion, it’s all that he can manage simply to pull his underclothes and trousers back on; he and Belle retire to the bed, which, though not as large as the one Balem had given them, is no less comfortable. She seems to feel the same need as he does to be constantly touching, nestling into his arms with little encouragement, and Rumpelstiltskin gratefully embraces her.

They don’t sleep, although they do rest; they talk quietly, not of the plan but of other, more mundane topics. He tells her a little of Baelfire’s childhood, and she listens intently when he describes the seer, the choice he made to be part of his son’s life. She never pulls away, no matter what he tells her, and when they’ve spoken enough to be exhausted, he touches her through her leathers until she’s moaning and gasping in his arms, kissing her again and again. He doesn’t think he can get enough of the taste of her, the feel of her so warm and delightful against him.

It’s been perhaps four hours when Baelfire returns for them. Belle is dozing against Rumpelstiltskin’s chest; he finds that he can be satisfied just watching her, seeing her so peaceful and enjoying the simple fact that she’s _there_. That’s how Baelfire finds them; Rumpelstiltskin laying a soft kiss against her hairline, Belle making a sleepy, pleased sound in the back of her throat as she turns a little toward him.

“Um,” Bae says, somewhat less than eloquently. Rumpelstiltskin turns so quickly that it’s almost painful; his chest constricts tightly at the mere sight of his son. “It’s time.”

Belle’s eyelids flutter; she smiles at the sight of Baelfire, yawning and stretching out her arms. “We’re here already?”

Baelfire nods. “Kalique has sent word to Titus and Balem. They should be waiting for us.”

There’s little more to be said after that; Rumpelstiltskin untangles himself from Belle, automatically straightening out the coverlet on the bed, and they follow Bae out of the room and back towards the circular area where they met Kalique. Rumpelstiltskin can feel his heart thudding in his chest, as much as he might try to ignore it. Baelfire’s role in the charade they’re about to play was simple; he conveyed to Kalique that the prisoners wanted to meet with all the Abrasax siblings and the Sovereign to discuss their terms.

Rumpelstiltskin had actually expected that Kalique would want to hear it from him directly, but he had guessed already that she would be eager to show off her new toys in front of her family. She must also have surmised that her mother, and other brother, would almost certainly now be aware of the existence of Rumpelstiltskin and Belle; it would do her little good to hide them away. From everything Baelfire has told him, the Abrasax family are a complex unit to say the least.

Kalique is waiting for them in her room, smiling calmly as though she had expected nothing less than their unusual demand. “I do enjoy a family party,” she says buoyantly as they enter. “You’ll like Titus, I’m sure. Everybody does.”

With these words, she rises from her little stool, moving smoothly through the room towards the little corridor that leads to the entrance hall of her ship. Baelfire gestures that they follow with a short, deferential bow. Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin wishes that he’d said something meaningful to his son before they put their plan into action; something to fall back on, should something go wrong.

Too late for such regrets now. The hatch that opens the ship up is wide, letting rainbow-tinged sunshine stream into the hall as Kalique sashays outside. Baelfire is by no means the only attendant following her; Rumpelstiltskin counts twelve altogether, flanking he, Belle and Kalique as though to protect them.

Belle, as usual, is all agog to see where they’ve landed, and also as usual, her curiosity is not misplaced. They’ve alighted on another iron bridge, but this one leads to a very different structure than Balem’s stark-edged refinery. Even Rumpelstiltskin finds his mouth falling open as he takes in the gleaming, gold-edged glass soaring into the heavens, great smooth towers reflecting the clear sunlight that lacks any of the scarlet clouds that Balem possesses. It’s clear, now, where the rainbow colours come from; the glass is like a prism, colour bouncing away from it and sending streams of multi-coloured light beaming across the sky.

Kalique sees him looking. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she says, almost conspiratorially. “My mother has always had flair.”

That, he can only agree with. Flair doesn’t begin to describe the beauty in this palace, all light and gold and glass, a wonder of architecture. He contents himself with nodding simply, unwilling to show Kalique just how awed he is.

The inside of the palace is no less beautiful; the glass walls are so thick that it’s impossible to see out, but a warped array of colour and pattern gleams through them, and the place is so light that there’s no need for lanterns or the heavy bronze chandeliers that Balem had favoured. There are people everywhere; attendants in gold tunics stand discreetly against the walls, faces blank and smooth. In the centre of the room, there appear to be two separate contingents; a youthful man with boyish good looks but the same dangerous edge of power as Kalique, surrounded by red-clothed servers, and – Rumpelstiltskin, despite himself, draws in a shaky breath – Balem, wearing his customary black, accompanied by Mr. Night and four other attendants in bronze and black tunics.

“Brothers,” Kalique says, her voice ringing out clearly.

“Kalique,” the young man says, his tone jovial. He kisses her cheek. Kalique’s eyes flicker over to Balem; he inclines his head solemnly, looking at Rumpelstiltskin. Rumpelstiltskin looks steadily back, trying to control his erratic heartbeat.

“Titus, meet my guests,” Kalique says, waving toward Belle and Rumpelstiltskin. “They wanted a family reunion.”

Titus smiles, the motion not quite reaching his eyes, and bows his head to Rumpelstiltskin. He looks over to Belle, and his expression immediately turns hungry. He captures one pale hand in both of his, pressing her lips to the back of her fingers. Belle looks startled, and none too pleased, which is more than a little gratifying to Rumpelstiltskin.

“It’s a pleasure,” Titus murmurs into Belle’s hand. She lifts her chin in the motion that Rumpelstiltskin has come to recognise as a show of bravery, and slides her hand out of his grasp.

“Indeed,” she says clearly. Titus’ lips twitch, but he doesn’t comment.

“Where is mother?” he asks Kalique. “I heard she was to preside over these proceedings.”

“I don’t know why she’s not here to greet us,” Kalique says, sounding almost petulant. Rumpelstiltskin hides a smile; even his limited interaction with Kalique was enough to deduce that her relationship with her mother is strained, and Baelfire had told him the same thing.

Someone, somewhere nearby, _screams_.

It’s a loud, screeching sound, totally out of place in the hushed quiet of Seraphi’s palace, and there’s no one in the hall unaffected by it. Attendants scatter in their array of coloured tunics, searching out the source of the noise, and both Kalique and Titus start forward. Even Balem twitches, his eyes leaving Rumpelstiltskin’s face and roving toward a pair of ornate golden doors at the back of the hall.

“ _Now_ ,” Baelfire hisses in his father’s ear, and he’s right; a young woman, wearing a pale gold dress, has pushed her way through the doors, looking horrified. There’s no better time for it.

Rumpelstiltskin snatches Belle’s hand, and the three of them turn and _run_. Kalique is far too occupied with the girl in the gold dress to notice their disappearance; indeed, no one is looking their way. All eyes are on the girl, and even as Rumpelstiltskin pushes through the glass doors through which they came, he hears her sob out: “The Sovereign… there’s blood, so much blood, I think she’s dead!”

Baelfire had told them about the emergency pods held to the side of Kalique’s ship; part of what he’d been doing while Rumpelstiltskin and Belle waited to be transported to Seraphi’s home was to prepare one of them for instant departure. It chagrins Rumpelstiltskin to know that his son is responsible for so much of their success; it ought to be he who rescues them, who saves the two people he cares for most in the world. But he’d had to agree, eventually, that there was no better plan. They’ve exposed Seraphi’s death, forcing Balem to reveal it through demanding to see her themselves, and hopefully that will be enough of a distraction to hold the Abrasax siblings’ attention away from the possibilities afforded by alternate dimensions. Now all there is left to do is escape.

The pod is held by a series of wires to the side of the ship; Baelfire, fearless, leaps onto it from the bridge, unwinding them in a well-practised fashion. Again, much to his dismay, Rumpelstiltskin can only wait while he works, forced to admit that in this instance, his son is far more useful than he. Belle clings to his hand, looking anxiously back at the glass tower in case anyone has noticed that they’re gone.

“We’re going to get away,” she says softly, half to herself. Rumpelstiltskin squeezes her fingers.

“Of course we are, dearie,” he says. “And I’ll find us a way back to the Enchanted Forest, I can promise you that. I’ll take you back to your father.”

She smiles at him, her eyes bluer and lovelier than ever. “I believe you,” she says simply.

“Can’t be done,” Baelfire says succinctly from the pod, surprising Rumpelstiltskin; he hadn’t realised that his son was listening. He doesn’t look up to see how his words will be taken, concentrating on the task at hand.

“If anyone can do it, Rumpelstiltskin can,” Belle says loyally. “He found a way here, didn’t he?”

Baelfire does look up at that, frowning as though he hadn’t thought of that until now. “How _did_ you get here?” he asks cautiously.

Rumpelstiltskin swallows, remembering the hundreds of years of research, the crushing, debilitating loneliness, the desperation. “The White Rabbit drew me a portal,” he says. “I fought the Jabberwocky for the spell that would show me where you were.”

Bae’s eyes widen in shock. “The Jabberwocky? But… No one’s ever defeated her.”

“I would have done anything,” Rumpelstiltskin says, his voice a croak. He swallows deliberately, trying to wet his mouth. “I would have done anything, to find you again. To tell you how sorry I am.”

There’s a moment, where Baelfire bites his lip, where Rumpelstiltskin thinks he might reach out. Might forgive him. It’s a single moment, and he finds himself so desperate for it that he doesn’t care if Baelfire rejects him. He extends a hand, and his son, slowly, begins to reach to touch it.

“ _Rumpelstiltskin_!”

His heart stops. His hand falls, impotent, to his side. Cold with fear, Rumpelstiltskin turns.

Balem Abrasax stands just five feet away, his chest bare, his robes swirling around him, his eyes flashing.

He doesn’t wait for Rumpelstiltskin to respond; lunging forward, his teeth bared in a vicious scowl, he makes his approach. He looks half-wild, pushed beyond all recognisable control, and Rumpelstiltskin acts on instinct.

He lifts Belle up by her elbows, ignoring her squeak of surprise, and puts her onto the emergency pod with Baelfire. The wires are almost completely untangled; Baelfire can have them away. He can keep Belle safe – they can keep each other safe.

Belle seems to understand, suddenly, what he’s doing; her eyes widen. “No!” she says loudly. “Rumpel, no!”

He leans forward, briefly, and kisses her on the mouth. Her lips are soft beneath his, and she clutches at him; if it’s the last kiss he’s to have in his life, it’s a lovely one to remember. His eyes flicker to Baelfire.

“Take care, dearie,” he says quietly.

Then he retreats.

Bae hitches what can only be described as a sob, low in his chest, but he goes back to work on the wires; Rumpelstiltskin only needs to keep Balem distracted for a few minutes more. He knows, without his magic, that that’s all it’ll take for him to die. But his son will be safe. His Belle will be safe. What more could he ask, here in this moment?

Somewhere behind him, Belle is crying.

Balem’s lips curl into a smile. It’s a cruel smile, and Rumpelstiltskin shivers involuntarily. He shakes away the feeling, lifting a hand to push his hair back.

His hand.

He stops, suddenly, and brings his hand back down from his face. Balem’s smile falters, just slightly, and he hears a sharp intake of breath that could belong to either Belle or Baelfire. Because the hand he’s waving in front of him doesn’t belong to him.

It’s just an ordinary hand; a little wrinkled, with smooth, rounded nails and hairs at the wrist. But Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t have ordinary hands. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands are scaled, monstrous things, with sooty claws. He lifts up the other hand, and it trembles as he stares at it.

He looks up at Balem. “What did you do to me?” A hand flies to his throat as he speaks; his grating high-pitched tones have gone. He recognises this voice; he hasn’t heard it for more than two hundred years.

Balem has actually stopped in his tracks. “What madness…?” he whispers softly.

The Dark Curse is lifting away from him. He can feel the darkness peeling from his soul, even without desperately touching his face, his hair, to make sure. He’s reverting to the man he once was, back when he truly _was_ a man, and he knows, from long, long experience, that there’s only one thing that can break a curse such as his.

True Love’s Kiss.

It’s the deepest, purest magic there is.

It means that Belle, lovely, impossible Belle, is his true love.

It also means that magic is changing him, here on this world without magic. And if magic can work here, then Rumpelstiltskin, the most powerful sorcerer in the Enchanted Forest, can make use of it.

Raising his hands, he pushes a wave of air at Balem. The man is knocked from his feet, skidding along the bridge, his perfectly oiled hair falling out of place.

Rumpelstiltskin turns impishly towards his son and his true love, a smile on his face that’s purely his own. He gestures to the emergency pod. “Shall we, dearies?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got it out there! I'm so sorry TheStraggletag, you've been so patient with me and I've taken forever to get this to you, but happy Christmas in July to you and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Also I'm well aware that I've played just a little fast and loose with TLK, I can't help it, I literally need it in every Rumbelle fic I write. Oops!


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